


We belong to the shadows

by sparklingice



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Awkward Crush, Bottom Sam Winchester, Child Abuse, Codependency, Dark Thoughts, Depressed Sam Winchester, Depression, Falling In Love, Family Issues, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Flirting, Getting Together, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Loving Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Romantic Fluff, Sassy Sam Winchester, Swearing, Top Dean Winchester, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18803848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingice/pseuds/sparklingice
Summary: Sixteen-year-old Sam Wesson is too jaded to feel anything other than hate for his world. Dean Winchester changes his mind."He’s got green eyes, pretty-shaped, a bottom lip Sam wouldn’t mind splitting with a fist or a set of hungry teeth, and wanna-look-cool stubble on his jaw. He wears leather and jeans, carries six states’ worth of caked mud on his boots, and sprawls in his seat with his thick thighs spread wide. The girls lick their lips, the boys frown, some teachers update their tally of people to watch out for. Sam keeps his head down for the rest of the day, avoiding him at all costs."





	1. Tumbleweed

**Author's Note:**

> There are mentions of substance abuse in this, but it's not the boys who are doing it. If you are triggered by discussions of child abuse, read only with caution. Unhealthy thoughts and situations are bound to come up.  
> That aside, the boys are teenage boys through and through. Wild, sometimes a little creepy, awkwardly flirty around each other and always horny.

 

His new record is two minutes, twenty-six seconds. It’s a hundred and forty-six seconds more than what Sam would willingly dedicate to his Physics class, but he’s sixteen and has no fucking say in his own life. He’s just ballast, sinking into the void where it doesn’t matter if you gasp for air or let yourself suffocate.

Anyway, he set a new high score for himself. He didn’t plan to, but some things are bound to make a guy snap. Physics being one of them. You gotta let it out somehow.

The thing is, Sam’s teacher calls all his classmates by their first names except for her own daughter, which is the stupidest fucking way to practice anti-favoritism. It pisses Sam off. So, out of sheer boredom, he asked if she forgot how to pronounce Delilah. This was the fastest he got himself sent out of class with a shrieked _“Detention!”_ thrown at his indifferent back, and it makes him pretty satisfied, all things considered. Minutes of uninterrupted hallway-time. Sweet.

If it wasn’t for the jerk swaggering towards him along the row of battered lockers, he would go as far as pumping his fist in silent cheer.

As it is, he makes a face and hops up on the windowsill, scuffing his toes on the floor as he swings his long legs back and forth, back and forth. Hot Texan sunshine beats down on the back of his neck, makes sweat prickle under his too-long hair, and he watches his shadow on the dirty linoleum floor, the way his arm twitches when a second silhouette joins him in the oblique frame. His shoulders hunch on instinct - he lets them stay bowed this time, unassuming with his goody two-shoes face and boy scout clothes. Fuck if he knows why his Mom keeps dumping them on him, but khaki pants and pocket tees come in handy when an unknown element enters the picture. Sam prefers to know if they are trouble before they realise _he is._

“Hey, Sasquatch, which one’s 302?”

Oh, this guy is trouble all right. Already pushing Sam’s buttons within two seconds of meeting him. _Fuck off,_ Sam wants to hiss, but the memory of blood in mouth and knuckles on bones is stronger than the smoldering fire in his gut. Stay put, stay low, attack sneakily. _Bide your time,_ he tells himself, but his head snaps up, delivers a glare that hits the guy right in his cocky face. It earns him a lopsided grin.

“Cat got your tongue?” The stupid, irritating ass raises an eyebrow.

He’s got green eyes, pretty-shaped, a bottom lip Sam wouldn’t mind splitting with a fist or a set of hungry teeth, and wanna-look-cool stubble on his jaw. His threadbare jacket sprinkles golden dust into the ray of light as he moves. Sam blinks after the particles, startles when he sees the reflection of his own life in them. The same worn-down carelessness, the same drifting, meaningless existence. And just like that, the stranger is one step too close to being attractive. Sam has to get away from him. He doesn’t want to care, to get his shit together and impress. All he wants is to be left alone.

Before he can mumble an answer, his Physics teacher opens the classroom door, a furious scowl digging wrinkles between her brows. She opens her mouth to scold him for not coming back with an apology, as though he ever does, but the words die on her tongue as she spots the new guy. “Oh. Hi, you must be Dean Winchester.”

The boy shrugs, suddenly taciturn. A case of authority allergy, another point in Sam’s long catalogue of dark desires. He grips the ledge he’s sitting on to keep the rising irritation at bay. He doesn’t want to care.

His - well, _their_ teacher purses her lips, scenting animosity, and beckons them. Dean follows the silent order and lets out a disappointed breath, the softest of sighs meant for no one’s ears, but Sam hears it, wants to stay as far away from it as possible. It’s too familiar, too empty.

“You too, Samuel.” Mrs. Butler snaps, prepared to put up with him once again, how wonderful.

Sam slides off his perch, weary as only a brooding teenager can be, and trudges after his new classmate. _Hot ass,_ he adds to his mental blacklist, not checking, just ducking his head to hide his expression. They have to know he doesn’t care. Dean Winchester wears leather and jeans, carries six states’ worth of caked mud on his boots, and sprawls in his seat with his thick thighs spread wide. The girls lick their lips, the boys frown, some teachers update their tally of people to watch out for. Sam keeps his head down for the rest of the day, avoiding him at all costs.

 

* * *

 

 

For someone who looks like prime material for the teacher’s pet position, Sam has an impressive track record of misbehavior. Part of it is necessity - better chances of survival if the greatest danger is the mind-numbing monochrome of a classroom. The rest, Sam would admit if anyone asked, is a dysfunctional valve on his emotions. There’s something volatile in his chest, inflammable, something that makes the pressure in his ribcage rise to bursting. His teachers can’t handle him, can’t predict his bites or counteract his venom. He’s a paragon four days out of five, the devil himself on the fifth. Dead on the weekends.

Sam drags his gangly body into detention, nodding at the teacher, who sighs, turns back to her work. They see each other more often than he talks to his Mom. He looks back down on his shoes, counts the times he steps on his laces, tries to work out a ratio for missteps and stumbles. At the very back of the room, he folds himself into a chair with a reflexive slump, his bag clanking heavy-dull on the desk, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow. Maybe he’ll get some sleep. Might as well make up for last night. He counts the ticking of the too-loud clock instead of sheep and imagines a place where his skin doesn’t smell like dry sand and apathy.

Five minutes later, something tickles his ear.

“The fuck.” He mutters to himself, leaves out the what because he doesn’t like questions. Answers make jack shit change in his future anyway.

Without raising his head, he tangles his fingers in his hair, swipes through it until they catch on a piece of paper. _No, I won’t go to prom,_ he thinks as it unfolds, the image of that unhinged senior, Becky Rosen, clear and sharp in his mind. She’s probably after the dubious fame of his reputation.

But the note isn’t from her at all - he would know, he has _seen_ her handwriting, all the loopy curls and heart shaped dots - no, this is a chicken scratch of doom.

_Sup Sammy?_

Dean Winchester is staring at him from across the aisle, discarded candy wrapper confetti around him. He is absent-mindedly embedding a pencil into the shabby top of his desk. His hair looks like he’s been running his hand through it, rustling the sun-washed tips of it, and it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair that he blasts through Sam’s defenses like that, makes him want to fist those locks and pull.

“Name’s _Sam._ ” Sam mouths, a foreign feeling of heat washing over him. Fuck, this school needs ACs _yesterday._  

Dean’s cheeks barely contain his smile.

“I’m bored.” He whispers back, head tipping to the side in a show of the gurgling zombie mood they are all in. His lips are cotton candy pink. He must have been gnawing on them since his chocolate stash ran out.

Sam turns away, ignores the flutter in his throat that says he wants to bite them red-raw, and looks out the window, watches the bright blue of this flowery spring afternoon. Who the hell transfers in March? _As a junior?_ Drifters, that’s who. Clumps of dirt in the wind, Sam’s kind.

Twisted as he is in his seat, his shirt rides up and leaves the most annoying strip of skin bare and too cool compared to the rest of his overheated body. He’s blushing, he knows, and it’s the worst that could happen, to care and for people to know it after one look at his expression. Weak points are going to be exploited, he learnt it years ago. Nothing like having your favourite toys stomped on and trashed because you refused to shut the fuck up while your stepdad was watching porn in the other room.

Behind him, he hears a hum and a pop. Something hits the naked spot on his back, falls into his pants because he’s a skinny shit and leaning forward means half an inch of a gap between his back and his waistband. He bolts upright, grabs for the thing before it could make it further down and leave a smear on his trousers.

It’s a chewing gum, still in its wrapper, a colour clash of blue and neon pink, cartoon figures chasing each other. Another pop resonates in the forced quiet of the room, and Sam looks over, scowls at the deflating bubble Dean Winchester is pulling back into his mouth with the cheekiest twinkle in his eyes. Sam is about to throw the gum into that arrogant face when the teacher blocks his sight, high-heels clicking menacingly. He can’t hear what she says, but Dean is loud and shameless, the perfect counterpart to Sam’s quiet and dangerous.

“Just wanted to get a closer look at the _view,_ miss.” Dean tells her, and Sam can hear the leer, almost expects a slap for it.

It doesn’t come - she must have gotten used to the local delinquents admiring her cleavage long ago. One piece of garbage trained by the country’s dust bowl isn’t going to faze her that easily. She walks over to a trash can, picks it up and thrusts it under Dean’s nose. There’s no sign of disappointment as Dean spits, and Sam’s stomach sinks, because it means that boisterous idiot didn’t do it for her reaction. And since all the others in here are heavy metal punks living their fuck the system phase, Sam has no doubt Dean is going for him. He knows - tumbleweed doesn’t mix well with black hair dye and eyeliner.

Sure enough, as the teacher strolls away, satisfied in the illusion that she taught a lesson, Dean’s gaze is fixed on him, challenging. Fuck. Why did Sam get saddled with his own distorted mirror image as a classmate? And who the hell Dean thinks he is, trying to one-up Sam’s unique sort of rebellion?

 _Screw him,_ Sam fumes and pops the bubble gum in his mouth. This is _his_ domain.

 

* * *

 

Dean’s laugh is a ring that rolls on and on and on in Sam’s head even after he finished flashing his white teeth in the orange-violet sunset of their post-detention time. “Man, I can’t believe she stepped into it. Those shoes must have cost a hundred!”

Sam curls his index finger around a rod of the railing he’s leaning into, helpless to watch Dean skip up and down the school steps. The rough surface of steel grounds him, makes the reel of want easier to bear. He’s not used to it. Living the way he is, it’s better to stay away from connections, planned or accidental. There’s nothing graceful in the feeling of loss when he is torn apart from them, when his Mom decides she has taken enough abuse from her current guy and moves them away to find another.

Dean stops in front of him and plants big, calloused hands on the bar behind his back, caging him in. He’s flushed and out of breath, with a manic gleam shimmering in his eyes, and Sam is - he isn’t afraid. There’s no panic, nothing screaming in his head to flee, to run, to avoid the pain. Dean’s leather smell and sweat-soaked heat surrounds him like a cloud.

“You should go home.” Sam mutters, dropping his gaze to the moisture cradled in the dip of Dean’s collarbone, where it peaks out of his askew shirt. He should have put on his hoodie by now, the tattered one lying at the bottom of his bag. Texas isn’t warm enough yet, not for Sam’s oven of a body. The shiver running up to his shoulder leaves a chemtrail of goosebumps behind, but he isn’t cold, not at all. He’s burning, caught off guard by the whirlwind that hit him today. He forgot how to understand attention that doesn’t come with anger or disappointment.

Dean bumps his boots into Sam’s sneakers, smudges brown on the not-quite white tips of them. “Nah. We should celebrate. Getting detention _in detention?_ Impressive.”

Sam raises his eyes, defiant. He feels Dean’s thumb next to his right elbow, how it curls and shifts as Dean lets go with his other hand and stretches, swings outward and away from him. The evening chill begins to seep in. “You got detention on your first day.”

There’s something true and awful in the twitch of Dean’s smirk, how it hammers on Sam’s resolve, breaks his wall of disinterest. “What can I say? I’m charming.”

Sam snorts. “I bet.”

Dean’s eyes hold a strange tightness, a wistful gleam. “Tell me you don’t like me, and I’ll buy you a soda.”

“I don’t like you.” Sam replies without missing a beat.

“Awesome.” Dean grins and takes off, glancing over his shoulder to see Sam follow. He leads the way to a black Chevy, old and beloved, shiny clean, and strokes a hand over its top. “That’s Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did you just introduce me to your car?”

“Don’t hurt her feelings.”

There’s nothing funny or seducing in the reply, it’s just plain quirky and a little messed up, but it does Sam in. He doesn’t know this guy. He has no clue what he wants, sex, entertainment, friends, or something else, maybe Sam’s liver, but that, the ridiculous show of fondness for an old piece of metal, allures him.

He should head home, make it to his bedroom in time to lock it. A few hours of detention may go unnoticed, but if he stays out past sunset, the current douchebag might notice it when he sneaks inside, even wasted as he usually is. And that means flying fists and yelling, complaining neighbours. A shitty night.

But Sam wants to take Dean up on his offer, see where this will take him. It has been so long since he took new risks, and Dean looks like he could be the risk of a lifetime, something truly wild and addictive. There’s no way Sam can pass this one up.

“I know a place.” He says at last and opens the door, pretends the creaking hinges can drown out his racing heart when the full force of Dean’s smile sweeps over him. He knows he’s lost as soon as his thighs hit the leather.

 

* * *

 

They don’t talk much on the way, but it suits them just fine. Sam bitches about the music and Dean grins, cranks it up until the car’s windows shudder. Suffused with too much crappy noise, Sam rolls his own down and lets his hand coast over the wind blowing inside and ruffling his hair.

It feels like home, more so than the mildew-frosted shithole he’s living in with his Mom nowadays.

As the last rays of sunshine hit his face through the windshield, Sam gives in to the comforting leather-smell and Dean’s effortless driving, lets them bring up the hope and nostalgia he used to feel those rare times his Mom was happy to be on the move. Back then, he thought they could start a new life. A better one.

 

Inside the diner, Dean sprawls over one half of a booth and gives their waitress a bratty-confident wink. Her pinking cheeks are pretty enough, Sam notes, if someone is into that fake Virgin Mary thing. She smiles at them both when she comes back with their order, gives Sam’s scowling figure an appreciative look and sways her hips like live porn. Going for both types of bad boys, huh? Fuck knows Sam has no idea why their imminent doom revs a proper girl’s engine, but he watched his Mom enough times to notice the signs.

By the time he tucks into his sad Caesar salad, half of Dean’s sausages are struggling their way down his throat, leaving a trail of mustard in the corner of his lips as an evidence of their heartless murder. Sam twirls his fork and wonders why that doesn’t disgust him at all.

“You eat like a pig.” He says dryly.

Dean doesn’t bother to swallow before his comeback. “At least I eat real food. _Manly_ food.”

It would be no use telling him that Sam didn’t want to order more because they are both broke and Dean counting change to pay would be too painful for today. Sam likes salad anyway, no reason to step on Dean’s gut with figurative cleats of shame. His phone buzzes, but fuck it, he ignores the call. The easy banter helps the embers in his stomach settle. “Tell me how manly you feel when you start to show.”

Dean laughs, loud like the obnoxious, enticing thing he is, and leans down to take a sip of his drink, straw caught behind his front teeth as he grins around it. “A little bird told me you are the smartest kid in our class.”

Sam snorts. Yeah, right. Define smart and he may be convinced. “That bird sure wasn’t the sharpest tool then.”

Dean’s come-hither gleam dims into something deeper, more serious. Sam has to focus on ignoring the mix of dread and satisfaction in his chest at the sight. “You are quite an enigma, huh?”

“So I heard.”

“Are you a mathlete?”

Sam shrugs, wanting to brag and to shy away at the same time. He’s out of his element, so he pulls his walls up high enough to hide behind. “That and the resident devil.”

Dean flicks drops of coke on him with the tip of his straw. “How does that go with - detention and shit?”

Easy question. “Life is crap either way. I don’t care.”

“True that.” Dean laughs softly, bitterly. Sam didn’t know it would be this frightening to meet someone who _gets it,_ but it is. It’s crazy exhilarating though. “What’s your deal?”

“Aren’t we done playing twenty questions?”

Dean leans back and bumps his right boot into Sam’s ankle. “Come on. Spill. I’ll let you cry on my shoulder.”

Sam gives him a much harder kick back, but Dean’s grin only widens and makes him scowl.

“My Mom changes fuck buddies twice a month. Hell knows which one left me behind. That about sums it up.” Sam spits, gaze fixed on the sticky tabletop to avoid further interaction, but his curiosity gets the better of him in the end. “What about you?”

“I lost my Mom thirteen years ago. Dad and I’ve been on a road trip since.” Dean offers, honest humour in his voice. It must be how he copes with the inevitable suffering. “With Jack Daniels on the backseat.” He adds wryly.

Their eyes lock and something passes between them - an emotion so unfamiliar and scary for how pleasant it is. Their waitress sashays back, asks if they want anything else, and Dean just pulls out the wrinkled bills from his jacket pocket he pretended not to count in the car. Neither of them looks away, not even when a slip of paper lands in front of Sam, along with the words “I get off in ten, sweetie.”

Dean’s eyes don’t flicker to her curvy backside as she retreats, but stay intent on connecting to Sam’s. It doesn’t feel like a challenge, not this time around.

“I thought a nerd like you would jizz himself after such an invitation.” Dean teases, mouth curving.

Sam takes a leap of faith, a small one. “She’s not my type.”

A heavy silence settles over their booth. Dean’s lips are stretching into a slow, lazy smirk, and Sam has the answer on the tip of his tongue, feels how hot his blood is running to take Dean up on that unsaid offer, to jump right off the ledge and go wild for fucking once. To get off on the danger of it. But his phone buzzes again, goes off right there, in his pocket, loud enough for Dean to falter, glance away.

“Sorry.” Sam mumbles and picks it up, hates whoever is on the other end, whoever robbed him of a probably spectacular act of decadence.

_“Sam, where the - you seen the - Don can’t find his .45 -”_

It’s his Mom. Drunk, looking for the fucking gun Sam hurled into the river last week. Ruining his life at every chance she gets.

“I don’t know, Mom.” He says, voice quiet and impassive. Dean picks the last pieces of meat out of his salad until Sam threatens to stab him with his fork.

“The hell is wrong with you?” He mouths at Dean’s atrocious laugh, then flinches when Don Whatshisname local stud bellows out his smoke-tainted lung into the phone, promising bloody murder.  _Nothing new,_ Sam thinks, and hangs up.

“I gotta go.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Dean licks his lips, seems to fish for something else to say, but comes up empty-handed. He slaps the tabletop and rises. “All right, let’s go, Sasquatch.”

“Can you quit calling me that?”

“Sure, Sammy.”

Sam shoves him out the door, hard. “It’s _Sam,_ you jerk.”

Dean’s laugh rumbles in his chest the way an engine purrs flying down a dusty road.

 

* * *

 

The next morning dawns on a gloomy Thursday with purple-grey clouds in the sky, promising rain. Sam shuffles his feet into class on a yawn and an empty belly, then stops dead in his tracks because Dean Winchester is in the seat next to his, smiling at Sam’s previous neighbour who looks a little worse for wear. Sam scowls. Sometimes it's a superhuman quest to get himself to school, when the light at the end of the tunnel flickers out into darkness. This is one of those days. He feels phantom pain in his chest, has to rub at it to quell its throbbing as he shoulders through a group of girls giggling in the doorway. But looking at Dean - it helps. He digs kernels of curiosity up from where Sam has buried them all months ago.

Dean winks at him when he passes his desk and their clothes brush, swish like dry leaves. It makes Sam feel antsy enough that he volunteers to go up to the blackboard and solve an equation. He doesn’t _want_ Dean to look at him, but he knew he would, he fits the type who gets off on the hunt as much as he likes getting what he wants. He knew Dean would give him once-overs well into this side of inappropriate, so, reluctant as he was, he made a grudging effort to dress up in something that didn’t come from a thrift shop. The fruity scent of women’s shampoo still clings to his hair, because his Mom’s guy used up all of Sam’s, but he feels kind of nice anyway, all clean and decent.

Standing in front of the class doesn’t make him slouch for once.

“Good job, nerd.” Dean smirks at him when he sits back down, when the fleeting pride of how smart he is runs its course through his system.

Sam doesn’t let his eyes wander away from his notebook, but the burn of his blush stays with him until the bell rings.

He’s deliberately slow to pack his things after, to see if he can avoid Dean until their next class together. Or, a torturous voice in his head pipes up, to see if Dean wants whatever it is he’s chasing enough to wait until Sam drags his ass out of the room. Behind him, the self-assured jock gang goes about its daily gossip business, debating who to go after that day. Cause it’s fun, apparently. Sam isn’t the least bit afraid - these guys are wary of him, just a little bit. He’s a wildcard who’s antisocial enough that they don’t bother with him. With Dean, however...

“...the Winchester boy?” He catches the tail end of one knucklehead’s question.

“Shit, man, that guy’s feral.”

“Feral?”

“Yeah. Like, we’re sitting in Bio, cutting frogs and shit, and I’m telling ya, he _ate_ one. Legs and all.”

Sam smiles to himself, then tries to frown when he catches how his heart thuds double time for a second. He bets that idiot has been popping candies again, right next to a dissected carcass. Licorice, probably. One day together and he feels like he has known the guy all his life.

“What the fuck? You’re full of shit, Jimmy.”

Sam hears them laugh and joke around in disbelief, but there’s a tone of carefulness in it, something that tells him they won’t try their luck with someone so unfazed by bloody intestines. Relieved in spite of himself, he stops stalling and picks up his stuff.

Dean is waiting for him outside. He’s flashing leers left and right at anything with two legs and a pair of C cups, his hands in his pockets, holding up a dented locker. The flirting throws Sam for a momentary loop - then he remembers he’s the tallest junior in this dirthole of a school. He must look like a good ally, the biggest blink on the radar. It doesn’t make him disappointed, just… grey. That’s the best word he’s got. Grey like the long stretch of nothing between night and day, the time no one cares about or stays awake to see.

When Dean sidles up to him, he finds himself glancing at him anyway. “Got yourself a rep already.”

Dean bounces on his heels. “Good or bad?”

“Depends.”

“All lies, Sammy.” He laughs. “Though I gotta say, snakes taste much better.”

Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t press back when Dean bumps into him, just scuffs his feet and ignores the gaping stare he receives from a pair of freshmen losers - yeah, he’s tall, so what. He can’t fucking get it why it takes three months at a new place for every noob to get over that. And why it seems to fascinate Dean that much. Well, fuck him, Sam’s not interested. Not much, anyway.

 

* * *

 

At lunch, he plants himself down at his usual table, the one in the corner farthest from the doors. When he has to go on two meals a day, he usually chooses breakfast and dinner, sleeps lunch away in the library. He isn’t sure why he decided to forgo breakfast this time, because he’s fucking tired _and_ feels like keeling over from hunger, but the last straw that makes him regret it is Dean Winchester, singling him out as soon as he got a tray in his hands and coming over to him.

He drops into the chair opposite Sam and shovels a forkful of lunch into his mouth as though he wasn’t trespassing on Sam’s territory of solitude.

“You mind?” Sam raises his eyebrows and spreads his hands, incredulous.

Dean looks up for a quick, relaxed smile. “Nope.”

Sam’s blood boils. He doesn’t want anyone to disturb his routine, he wants to stay in the background, away from the spotlight. He can already feel calculating eyes on him, trying to guess why the sexy new boy bothers to associate with him. He doesn’t need that shit in his life.

“This is my table. Go find one for yourself.”

“I’m quite comfy, thanks.”

Sam has no idea what to do with this shameless audacity. He kicks at Dean’s leg and falls into a scuffle when Dean kicks him back, stops only when he realizes this is essentially a heated footsie. Since chasing Dean off doesn’t work, he tries the ignore-and-look-away route then, sits at an angle and glares at anyone who dares give him the side-eye. His mistake - by the time he chews through a mouthful and glances back at his plate, he only has two thirds of his fries and twice as many pickles as he originally had. Dean’s plate is clear of vegetables.

“What are you doing?” Sam grits out, setting Dean’s plate on fire in his mind.

“Eating fries and - what’s this again? A coal bun?” Dean’s voice struggles its way through the piece of burnt meatloaf in his mouth.

“No, Dean, what are you _doing?”_ Sam snaps. He needed those fucking fries. Yeah, he likes pickles, but they ain’t gonna hold him up until dinner. “I’m not your fucking friend.”

“Don’t I know it.” Dean snorts, then leans back with an arm on the chair next to his, shrugging. “I dunno, man, I like you. You are entertaining.”

Sam is not a fucking TV. “Find your fun elsewhere, asshole.”

He stands up with his plate and stomps away, all but runs into the library to calm himself with the smell of dust and old paper. It’s the closest to peace he ever gets nowadays.

 

* * *

 

Sam has yet to find a class more cringeworthy than PE. The mere sight of the locker room makes the acid in his stomach churn. He doesn’t wanna change. Has a damn good reason why, too. No one wishes to be the poor abused outcast whom everyone gawks at when his shirt is off. No, Sam would rather be the guy who’s always ten minutes late in and out, the weirdo who sticks to long sweats instead of comfy shorts.

He looks like a beanpole, but he isn’t green at this shit, so it’s not like the guy got him too bad last night, but he received a blow to the ribs and that ain’t gonna pass as a hickey. Sam doesn’t want anyone to catch sight of it. Hell no. The last thing he needs is some tattletale nagging him about it. But with Dean lingering by his bench in the hopes of catching a time when Sam isn’t blowing hot and cold, he has no choice. Not really.

“Oh.” Dean makes a surprised sound when the clothes lift away from Sam’s chest.

Sam wishes he could fool himself into believing he was sexy enough to get that reaction. As it is, he throws on his shirt and purses his lips all the way to the gym. He doubts Dean will let it go without pushing for details. Keeping boundaries doesn’t seem to be his forte.

During basketball, one of the clumsy dumbasses elbows into Sam’s bruised ribs and he doubles over, hissing. He’s _this_ close to lashing out at the guy when Coach Wilson sends him off to the nurse.  _Fuck that,_ Sam thinks and wedges himself into the storage room, banking on a bit of shut-eye on the gym mattresses there.

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes though when Dean shows up with a grin and a bag of M&Ms, as though they are both for Sam to take.

“Piss break.” He explains and throws himself next to Sam, sits with one leg pulled up and the other stretched stubborn-hot against Sam’s own. In the thin ray of light that streams in through the age-old dirt of the window, the dusting of golden hair on the inside of his thigh gleams. Sam’s fingertips ache to curl into that pale flesh and see how soft and pliable it would be under the grip of his palm.

Shit. Sam closes his eyes, swallows, tries not to breathe too obviously. Why, he doesn’t know. It just feels like maybe he could become invisible then, watch Dean without the fear of him looking back and judging. The candy in Dean’s mouth crunches between his teeth, over and over again. Sam waits for a break in the rhythm and thinks he’s simultaneously dying and combusting with life. How the fuck could the most annoying sound in the universe make his heart pound?

“I’ve got something in the car.” Dean mumbles, busy fishing for the last few balls of chocolate stuck in the corner of the bag. “You know, for your ribs.”

“I’m fine.” Sam starts, but has to trail off into a glare when Dean pokes him at his tender side.

“You got rid of it, didn’t you?” Dean grins. From Sam’s vantage point directly below, he has the slightest curve of fat under his jaw. It looks so biteable Sam wants to surge up and suck a mark into it. “The gun.”

Nosy jerk. “Yeah. Bastard kept shooting holes in the milk cartons when Mom made him angry.” Sam grunts to disguise the breath he loses when Dean’s leg shifts and he can feel the muscles twitch even through his sweatpants. “Do you know how a rotting milk stain smells on a carpet?”

“Can’t be worse than day-old vomit in a car’s trunk.” Dean snickers, and the genuine, awful humour of it floods Sam with fire. It’s a suffocating rush.

“How long have you got?” Sam sits up to make breathing easier, but his leg might as well be paralysed. He can’t bring himself to move it, keeps it awkwardly stretched just so that it can hold Dean’s warmth a little longer. It feels pathetic. Clingy. But every spot of contact makes the base of Sam’s spine tingle.

“Of what, my juvie sentence? Hate to break it to you, buddy, but my sheet is clean as a nun’s.” Dean smiles and he’s so close, Sam can see the blue stain in the corner of his mouth where a candy’s coating melted. He wants to lap it up. “Officially.” Dean adds.

Sam’s lips part to let him pant through his mouth. Up close, he can smell Dean now, the Axe under his shirt and the sugar on his tongue, the sweat he worked up before he left the game. Sam’s stomach whoops when he thinks of burying his nose in that stink and coming out high on it.

“Until you turn eighteen, you moron.”

Dean’s eyes twinkle. “Ten months.” He shrugs. “But I already have a part-time gig at Joe’s, helping out with the classics. I could drop out if I wanted.”

“Oh.” That… shouldn’t be a surprise. Not everyone’s here because they don’t have any other choice. “Why don’t you do it then?”

Dean shrugs, averts his eyes. “Family.” Is all he says. “You?”

“More than a year.” Sam sighs. Sixteen sucks. He imagines seventeen won’t make much difference either. He follows the green of Dean’s eyes as they flicker around the room, then come back. Their beauty stands in such sharp contrast to the rough cut of Dean’s cheekbones that he is crushed by the sight. His words tumble out like paper planes flying through a window, bereft of meaning as soon as their flight ends. “But I’ve been thinking about, you know. Leaving earlier. This shit gets old fast.”

“What about your mom?”

“Do I look like I care?” Sam scoffs, then jerks away when the storage’s door opens and one of his classmates throws in a basketball. As he clambers up from the mattress, he catches Dean’s sincere reply.

“Yeah. You do.”

He’s glad they have been interrupted before he said anything stupid to that. He knows he would have.

 

 


	2. Sandbur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam experiences the utter confusion of a first crush.

 

They don’t talk for a while after the storage room incident, just watch each other like predators about to pounce. Dean doesn't hit on him, barely even shows up to school to begin with. Sam’s mind plants a new theory every day, grows them and spins their buds this way and that until they are cosmic trees of betrayal or sinful desire. His very own forest of confusion. What made Dean step on the brakes? They were speeding down a crazy highway and knew it would end with their necks broken, why did he slow down? Why does he want to make it beyond that bend all of a sudden? Why didn’t he settle for the quick, no-strings fling Sam would have been? Doesn’t he want it anymore?

The questions claw his heart open at night when he can’t sleep through the moans coming through the too-thin walls. They drive him insane. One moment he thinks Dean wasn’t interested in anything but the potential muscle for a new gang, then his brain insists he got bored, is all. Found someone whose blush is just as fake as their inexperience. Or perhaps he still wants something, how about that?

That last idea is the one that always loiters around and chews at him from the inside until Sam pushes a hand in his boxers and lets his fantasies fly. He falls asleep with _Dean_ on his lips and wakes with Dean’s dream-shadow behind his eyes, walks to school aching to catch a flash of shiny black on the road and daydreams every equation to end with s + d < 3\. It’s a sickness he can’t dull with a pill, a disease that ebbs and flows, but never dries up. It’s a living hell he never asked for and tried to actively avoid since he first heard the word _crush_ whispered after pretty girls in middle school. Yet here he is.

At first, he thinks it’s the most obvious thing. Laughing stock for the gossip pool. He’s mortified every time he hears someone laugh and doesn’t even get detentions for two weeks because he’s that afraid of stirring up more of a fuss around himself. Then the paranoia lifts up and lets him run back into his jaded little world, his well-known void. It’s not much darker than it used to be, all things considered.

It’s on a Friday, the third one since Sam met Dean Winchester, that his luck decides his business isn’t quite done with the guy after all.

Sam is wandering down the stairs on his way to the front gate when he hears muffled noises from the restroom on the first floor. He enters with all the caution his past drilled into him and finds three boys in sports jackets trying to dunk a scrawny kid in filthy toilet water. _Fucking bullies,_ he thinks and punches the lights out of the closest one. The pain of his knuckles kills the hurt in his mind.

He doesn’t usually engage in these fights. Who the fuck wants to pull others’ problems on himself, right? But he finds he’s keyed up enough this time to push all the hurt and the bleeding wounds in his soul onto someone else’s flesh. He’s familiar with the hectic unfairness of street fights - these guys won’t teach him anything new.

Although it doesn’t hurt to have an ally.

Dean shows up out of nowhere, appears predator-swift with moves that only years of purposeful training can drill into muscle-memory. One second Sam feels a jock pulling at his hoodie to strangle him, he’s slamming forward without resistance in the next as the heavy boy behind him gets knocked to the ground.

“Howdy.” Dean cracks his knuckles and steps between him and the remaining two. He looks flat-out scary with his eyes gleaming like that, and Sam pops a boner so fast he thinks he might faint. What does this say about him?

“Get out.” He turns to the kid cowering in the stall to cover the tell-tale bulge in the front of his jeans.

No need to say it twice, the boy is outta there faster than the local track and field champ covers a yard sprinting. Muscly and Brainless aren’t exactly delighted by that, but between the two of them, he and Dean beat their asses within a minute. They glance at each other after, chests heaving and lips curving up. _Nice,_ Sam wants to say, _you know when to show up, asshole._ He wouldn't mind wiping the thin trickle of blood on Dean’s fingers with his own shirt. He almost goes for it too, but catches himself at the last moment, runs away before he’s dragged through the same clusterfuck he endured in the past two weeks.

It’s not that easy to shake Dean off, of course. He’s a sandbur plant dried up by the roadside, thorny burs sticking to your jeans and the skin underneath until you don’t know if the pinpricks of hurt or their itch bothers you the most. He follows Sam down the stairs and through the entrance in silence, then throws his arm around Sam’s shoulders and stops.

“Need a lift?” Dean asks, his voice smooth honey and bloodied satisfaction. It took two weeks for Sam to get clean of him, but less than an hour together and he’s relapsing into his crush. He feels strangely sympathetic with his addict of a mother - now he knows what need can do to your resolves.

“Fuck off.”

“Come on. I have a bomb ass slice of pie waiting in the backseat.” Dean coaxes. His thumb and forefinger rub away Sam’s fears through the back of his neck. “Cherry.”

Sam bursts out into a short laugh thinking of all the virgin jokes they don’t say, and that’s it, he’s gone. Again. Swallowed up by Dean’s quicksand allure. All pliant now, he lets Dean stir him to that gorgeous car and gets in, crosses his arms, then drops them back to his sides when Dean doesn’t stop staring at him from behind the wheel. He wouldn’t mind melding with the upholstery right now.

“What?” He asks defensively.

“Nothing.” Dean mumbles, then reaches for the box on the backseat. The delicious scent of fruit wafts through the car. He groans and bites into the fat slice he pulls out from under the lid. “God, I’m starving.” He chews.

When Sam reaches for the pie too, he raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’m sharing?”

“Give me a bite, asshole.” Sam laughs and swats at his knee, fights the urge to leave his hand there. His fingers shake with nerves just thinking about it.

Dean smiles with powdered sugar on his lips and offers him the slice. It should be gross, eating something another guy already munched on, but the thought of sharing that bit of saliva just makes Sam flush with pleased excitement. He takes a small portion and hands it back, hoping Dean won’t think it’s ruined now. That would be humiliating.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” He asks, pressing his sticky fingertips together and wishing he could wipe them with something.

“From Dad.” Dean replies and, to Sam’s relief, polishes off another mouthful.

"He's a hunter.” He gives the pie back to Sam and adds a handkerchief from the box.

“A monster hunter. And we travel across the country ganking what goes bump in the night." He makes a finger gun and shoots at imaginary enemies in exaggerated slow-motion, grinning until Sam almost chokes on the last morsels.

"That so?" Sam chuckles. "You know, I think I have some demon blood in me."

What the fuck. He wants to smack himself. Where did that come from? Why would it be good or interesting if he was one of the things Dean’s dad “hunted”? Does saying stupid shit counts as flirting?

Apparently, it does. "I can believe that." Dean laughs with a delighted gleam in his eyes.

“Should I be scared?”

Dean lowers his voice. “Maybe.” He’s close enough that Sam could easily tip forward and lick the freckles on the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry I wasn’t around much last week.” Dean whispers and raises a hand. It lifts past Sam’s shoulder to go for his face, but falters and turns back to rest on his biceps. “Dad needed me home.”

His thumb swipes back and forth, and this is the point where Sam realises, _this is going to happen. We are going to happen._ He almost bursts out giggling at the thought. Is this real?

He read somewhere once that ten seconds of continuous eye contact guarantees that the attraction is mutual. He feels kinda silly for it, but he tries to count anyway, frozen in place. _His lashes are so pretty,_ he thinks, _God, am I too weird?_ And, with his heart trembling, _I want to kiss him._

“It’s cool.” He mumbles on autopilot.

Dean’s hand withdraws. He runs it through his own hair and blows out a breath while his gaze flickers down, then back up to Sam’s. His tongue slips out to wet his lips.

“So-”

“Do you-” They start at the same time, then laugh. Sam takes a deep breath and soldiers on, wants to say later, when push comes to shove, that he did his best to take his chance.

“Do you want to - maybe - meet up tomorrow? We can…” He racks his mind for something fun to do, a local game or party, anything they could call a date and a friendly outing at the same time, but he comes up with a big, glowing nothing. And wouldn't that be hilarious anyway, him showing up to either of those? “...uh, hang out?”

“Yeah.” Dean answers, almost too quickly for Sam’s burning ears to catch. “A movie?”

Sam bites his lip to contain his smile. He thought he would never get to hear this question in his life, never would have imagined it will come from the most handsome boy he has ever seen. Like a cat in a sunny spot, he could bask in this feeling for weeks. “Not sure I wanna be caught with your ugly mug at the mall.”

Dean’s full-belly laugh brightens up the grim concrete-grey of the parking lot. “Oh, I know I’m a dream, Sammy.” He boasts and turns the key, happy to end the serious conversation there.

 _That you are,_ Sam wants to say as they pull away from the curb, _that you are._

 

* * *

 

 

They watch a cheap horror flick because Dean claims those double as comedies anyway. Sam can’t argue with that. His mind is still busy processing how Dean held him back before they crossed the street. He can sense the phantom pressure of that hand on his chest, the firm push back to the pavement. His entire body buzzes if he thinks about having it there again. He can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other when everything is Dean’s face and Dean’s voice and _oh God, what does Dean think._ Watching where he goes has become a monumental task.

Getting hit by a car would have been quite an epic fuck-up though, Sam shudders. They have barely even started, but he has no doubt he will mess this up. Perhaps he will faceplant in the restroom and break his nose. Or, even worse, fumble with his drink and drop it into Dean’s lap. Or he might just kill himself with a self-induced adrenaline OD, if anything like that exists in reality. He tries not to give a damn and to get a grip on himself, but his usual thoughts fail to fill his world with ash the way they are supposed to. Life doesn’t appear quite as empty when he’s a patch of summer prairie ready to catch wildfire.

“Did you watch the trailer? I sent you the link.” Dean whispers into his ear with thinly concealed glee after they settle down. The whoosh of air leaving his lungs tickles Sam’s ear and makes him shiver. God, he’s half-hard and Dean hasn’t even touched him yet. He thought the worst of his teen years were over, goddamnit, this is so embarrassing.

“Yeah.” Sam clears his throat, glad that he has been jittery all day, because after the stammering he pulled when Dean picked him up it doesn’t stand out how much he struggles with that lie.

They aren’t even _together_ yet, but he already wants to have heart-to-hearts where he can complain about the lack of wifi back home and about his Mom spending the money they don’t have. And he wants to listen to Dean, dig into his soul and examine the darkness inside, see where it is still curable and where it’s tattered by the pain they both know like an old friend.

He hopes his Mom isn’t going to interrupt his night again.

Sam sweats his way through the entire movie and knows he won't be able to recall a single thing about it. He fusses over his shirt, whether the sweat stains under his armpits will be too obvious or not, and _shit, did he spill a drop of coke on it?_ Then he tries to remember if he read a guideline or a handbook, anything about how to act when your potential boyfriend sits next to you in complete darkness. Does he go for a kiss on the cheek to start a make-out session? Surely not, that sounds super weird and like something Dean wouldn’t appreciate. What does Dean expect? Fuck, what if he wants a blowjob? It looks kind of messy in porn.

Handholding. Yeah. That’s safer. Sam is going to test the waters with that. If Dean pulls his hand to his crotch, he can go along with that. Right? He would have been on board with a quickie on the first day, he can do it now. And if Dean yanks his fingers away… Well, Sam will know he has been played then. Good joke.

He inches his forearm to the right as much as he dares, then stretches out his pinky until it rests right besides Dean’s. He can feel the bumps of Dean’s knuckles against his own and the heat where they touch each other. It reminds him of the day they met, how the first brush of their fingers sent warmth through his entire arm. Is it always going to be like that, Dean cutting into Sam’s cold world like a beacon?

“Oh my God, look at that CGI.” Dean guffaws and pulls his arm away to muffle the sound.

Sam’s stomach drops. “Yeah, haha.” He winces at his own fake laugh. God, he’s so stupid. Why does he even care? Less than a month ago, he wanted to kick this guy in the balls. How did he come to matter at all? Where did Sam’s rationality go?

“Low-budget monsters are the best.” Dean turns to smile at him and puts his hand on Sam’s, precise and sure. Gentle enough not to spook or capture.

It’s not an accident.

“Uh-huh.” Sam replies dumbly. His heart might as well become a sledgehammer for how it tries to beat its way out of his ribcage. They are holding hands. He’s holding Dean’s hand! Should he, should he, like, turn his over? What if his palm is sweaty and gross? Or too cold from anxiety? Dean’s is so comforting and warm, even now.

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, then turns back to the screen. He worms his fingers under Sam’s hand until Sam relaxes and accommodates him better. It’s amazing. He is so glad that his hand doesn’t feel like an enormous, clumsy paw in Dean’s hold. With Dean’s rough fingers between his bony knuckles, he feels grounded for the first time in years. Safe. Like his body knows Dean will take care of him no matter what. It calms him so much that Dean doesn’t expect him to take the lead because of his size, and doesn’t seem to push for anything at all, now that they are on a date, just takes whatever Sam gives him and waits with open arms for more.

They spend the rest of the movie with their fingers intertwined, thumbs tracing the grooves and calluses on each other’s skin. In spite of how loud Dean wolfs down his popcorn, Sam decides this is the best first date he could have asked for.

 

* * *

 

 

After, they get burgers at the diner across the street. They could have just ordered at the McDonald’s inside the mall, but Dean prefers to have a clear view of his car and Sam’s crush pools so achingly in his stomach he isn’t hungry at all. There's an old vending machine by the entrance, filled with toy capsules to lure in little kids and their unfortunate parents. Sam has some spare change in his pockets, and he feels restless enough to push the coins into the slot while Dean decides on a booth for them.

It isn’t until they sit down that he realises how bizarre it is to have a toy capsule in his fist and plans of debauchery on his mind.

Dean doesn’t jump on the chance to tease him about it though. “What’s in it?” He asks with childish curiosity.

Sam doesn't have to ask to know Dean didn’t get to open many of these as a kid. He didn’t either. It’s such a sour detail in his memories, begging his mother for treats and toys. _You’ll lose them anyway, darling, while we're on the road,_ she used to say, back when he was small enough for her to hold a little love. That passed months ago, around the time she exchanged booze for something stronger to take her away from reality. How long will it take until she forgets Sam altogether? Maybe that’s what she needs in the first place.

“A necklace, I think.” Sam mutters as he opens the capsule and a black cord spills out. Why can’t he stop thinking about her for once? He wants to enjoy this evening.

Abruptly, Dean stands up and circles the table to sit on Sam’s side. He doesn’t offer an explanation, just pretends to be mesmerized by the cheap little pendant resting in Sam’s palm. It’s a face with a weirdly serene expression, brass in colour, surprisingly detailed. It’s kind of scary for a kid’s toy, Sam thinks, but what does he know. Barbie dolls, too, creep him out to an extent.

“This is an amulet.” Dean mumbles and reaches out to trace the contours of it - essentially, he’s drawing patterns on Sam’s skin.

“Yeah?”

“It protects you from black magic and ghosts.” He nods. The solemn look on his face is betrayed by the amused creases in the corners of his eyes.

Sam gives him a lopsided smile.

“You can have it then. A lucky charm for your hunts.” He says and pulls it over Dean’s head. This time, he can’t resist leaving his hands on Dean, on either side of his neck, where it’s warm and soft above the hem of his shirt. He feels drunk, soaking up that contact, the slip-slide of the cord as Dean looks at him. How will he survive anything more?

“I’ll cherish it forever. Never taking it off again.” Dean mock-swoons, then darts forward and gives Sam a chaste peck on the lips.

A kiss.

Sam’s first.

He almost passes out then and there, his stomach hurts so much from the rampaging butterflies. Dean kissed him! Does this, does this even count as a first kiss? Sam has seen grandmas giving longer ones to kids. Does it only count when there’s tongue? God, he touched Dean’s lips. That full, pink curve of them... And they are so soft, even more so than he imagined, so overwhelming pressed to his own.

Does Dean expect him to go for something deeper now?

“Aw, you boys are cute.” Coos the waitress as she approaches their table. Sam drops his hands as quickly as he can - Texas isn’t the right place for flaunting this in public, he reckons, even if this girl has nothing against that sort of thing. He heard enough back home to know some people wouldn’t think twice about beating them for it. They aren’t in that part of town, but caution never hurts.

“Been together long?” Geez, she is really fucking dumb. Anyone with a pair of working eyes could see how nervous Sam is. With a glass of water in his hand, he would look like that guy on youtube who tried to drink a beer while manning a jackhammer. This isn’t how you act with a long-time boyfriend, for Christ’s sake.

Calm as ever, Dean slides his arm behind Sam’s shoulders and slouches lazily. It’s an effort on Sam’s part not to check out the V of his gorgeous thighs, how the curve of his knees accentuates the muscles under the faded jeans.

“Hell yeah.” Dean drawls. “He’s my baby brother.”

Sam thanks his lucky stars that he has nothing in his mouth, because he would have spat it all over the table. Jesus Christ. Is Dean crazy? This isn’t joking material in a family-centric place. Does he want to get kicked out?

It’s just icing on the cake that Dumb Bella proves her level of intelligence isn’t high enough to know when not to take someone seriously. She makes a bewildered, disgusted face, then marches away as soon as she gets their orders. She avoids looking at them all night, even after Sam tries to explain Dean didn’t mean that at all, and gives them a dirty look when Dean herds Sam out with a hand on his back. So much for a pleasant dinner, huh?

 

Sam’s ears still haven’t stopped burning by the time Dean’s Chevy rolls to a halt in front of the house Don the Asshole lives in. He refuses to call it home, but that’s what it officially is, at least until his Mom decides otherwise. One of its windows is boarded-up and there's rusty junk in the front yard.

Sam feels oddly grateful that Dean doesn’t ask whether he is sure he wants to go in. He _understands,_ and none of his attractive features compare to what that means to Sam.

It’s silent in the car, but the taut line of tension between them makes it louder than any sound that would break it. Sam sighs, fiddling with his hands. He doesn’t know if he should explain the house and tell Dean his Mom is an addict, only to something much worse than Jack Daniels. Could their relationship take that? Sam has his doubts. The poisonous shame he feels when he thinks about it suggests he should not drive Dean away with it just yet. Or maybe that’s exactly what he should do. Save them the time until the breakup.

“Man, that waitress...” Dean whistles, put out. “Why would anyone believe we are brothers?”

Sam rolls his eyes. _Because we look like we’ve been pulled off the same Goodwill shelf,_ he thinks. “Why did you even tell her that shit?”

“Dunno. Thought it would be fun.” Dean shrugs and reaches out to rub Sam’s neck again. Does he, maybe, have a thing for that? “I like messing with people.”

Sam clears his throat, looks away. Messing with people. Huh. Was today a joke too? A bit of fun? And here comes the punchline? Unable to pinpoint why, Sam feels hurt by the thought. All the exhilaration he felt today turns into broken cardboard pieces inside his mouth. He doesn’t know what to do about it, how to ask. He isn’t a girl, goddamnit. Doesn’t need a ring on it before he gives it up. He’s just so unsure… Why would Dean feel the same attraction, the vicious pull that sunk its hooks into Sam's flesh? And this is what happens every time Sam gets close to tasting air again - someone always pushes him back under, into the void.

“Right.” He says and reaches for the door handle.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

“Just tired.” He gives Dean a parting look that probably shows too much emotion, but whatever. Sam isn’t used to feeling anything particular other than fiery anger. “Good night, Dean.”

There’s a crushing sound inside the house and a dog starts barking on the other side of the fence. Sam purses his lips. He doesn’t need Don’s crap tonight, fuck, he really doesn’t.

Dean leans all the way over the bench to pout at Sam through the rolled-down window. “No goodbye kiss?”

Sam smiles despite himself. “Bite me.”

“Good night, Sammy.” Dean laughs and turns back to the wheel.

 

* * *

 

Sam is a moody, insufferable asshole on Monday. His weekend was a rollercoaster ride, but on one of those ratty wooden models that bruise your ass on their bumpy tracks.

He has no fucking idea how to carry on. If Dean was truly playing around, where’s the funny part? If he wasn’t, how do they pick things up now? He should have thought it through. Why does anything, even the dumbest of thoughts, make him flare up and burn out with emotions beyond his control?

He is unsure all over again. Could the tar in his stomach be love? Is this what loving someone is? Staying upright on a constantly unbalanced pillar? If so, Sam is about to tip over and fracture his skull in the fall. Maybe even that would be better than waiting.

He can’t concentrate all day, barely looks up at all, but not a single soul notices, which might as well be a metaphor of Sam’s life. Why does every minute seem like an interlude until he sees Dean again? And why does he, at the same time, dreads the moment the next act starts?

They only have one class together, but Sam chooses to skip that one, too chickenshit to face Dean even though he has been pining for exactly that since he watched the Chevy roll away. It’s ridiculous. Who gets this shit?

He’s sitting on the stairs outside, watching tiny black ants as they scour the chalk-dust-covered concrete one step below him when a hand slapping his back makes him jump.

“I think I know what upset you.” Dean cuts to the chase even before he sits down, but loses his momentum as soon as he gets a look at Sam’s arms.

He frowns, unlike anyone Sam has seen before, and a muscle in his jaw jumps and clenches until it looks ready to snap the bone in half. “Sam…”

“It’s not important.” It really isn't. Don broke a chair, that’s all. It’s just a matter of details _where_ he broke it. Honestly, the only reason why Sam feels somewhat self-conscious of the bruises is the overreaction they usually evoke.

“That douchebag with the gun?” Dean grits out darkly, but his touch is gentle when he caresses the skin above the contusions.

Sam shrugs. He doesn’t know if he should regret shedding his hoodie when he came here or not. He could melt from Dean’s hand on his body anytime, but pity would ruin everything good in the situation.

Dean entwines their fingers again. “I can take care of it. Just tell me.”

Like hell. Fuck. The last thing Sam needs is Dean’s unrecognisable carcass dumped in an alley by Don’s drug dealer friends.

“It’s none of your business.” He snaps, snarling. It’s not anger - well, it is, but not at Dean. It’s fear and hurt and bloody rage at the unfairness of it. What did he commit in a previous life to end up in this home, like leftover junk food tossed out for the rats?

Dean glares back until the storm in his gaze cracks and he looks away. He tilts his head back, eyes closed, and soaks up the sunshine so that he can say the redness on his cheeks is nothing but a peck from Mother Nature.

Sam smiles to himself, unabashed in his admiration. He finds it’s much easier to pretend not to be aware of something every conscious cell in him screams about inside his head. He draws his thumb down, feather-light, along Dean’s and lets his pulled-up knees lean to the side until his left bumps into Dean’s right.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” Dean asks, eyes still closed but a smile dancing around his lips.

Sam wants to kiss the shadows of his eyelashes until Dean’s skin loses its sun-warmth. “No idea. But it’s better than rotting inside.”

Dean’s eyes open, oddly serious. “I know I make stupid jokes sometimes.”

“Understatement.”

“Shut up.” Dean laughs and pushes his leg harder against Sam’s, biting his lip. “I’m not messing around. I mean, I really, just… I don’t do this, you know? I just pick them up and…”

 _Fuck them,_ Sam fills it in easily. He kinda figured that out the day they met. What would have happened if Sam slept with him that night? Would it have been enough to make Sam’s void dissipate for a few days?

“Dating isn’t my style. But you are something else, Sammy.”

A shy smile takes over Sam’s lips. Everything felt sepia-washed-out until now, shades of sand and stone, a dull reality, but this time when he looks up, he can appreciate the orange-pink of the afternoon sky, really see it for what it is. Colours splash across his faded world until he can see how beautiful the broken glass shards are under the bushes, glittering reddish-brown and wet.

He squeezes Dean’s fingers. “Sweet-talker.”

“You bet.”

A block down across the street, the usual group of punks burst into raucous laughter. They are drunk off their asses. One of them is trying to suck three cigarettes dry at once, face ugly red and straining, a chain of soda can tabs on his belt. His greasy-haired friend gets it on film.

“Do you smoke?” Sam shakes his bangs out of his eyes.

Dean shrugs. “Tried it. Didn’t stick.”

“Why?”

“I would rather spend my money on candy.” Sam snorts at the flippant answer and shifts to have a clearer view of those guys. He should be ready to fight them if they approach.

Dean lets go of his hand. “Yeah, okay, and this one chick in Kansas said kissing a smoker felt like licking an ashtray. I quit to get laid.”

“And?” Sam clears his throat, feeling hot and cold at the same time, fever-sick. Now would have been a good time to mention that… well. But he’s a nervous wreck inside, wants to avoid looking lame, so he turns his head to watch Dean’s face instead and stays mum about his inexperience. “Does it feel like that?”

Dean shrugs again. “Doesn’t matter. Kissing is kissing.”

In the silence that follows, Sam’s face heats up, but he keeps his gaze steadily on Dean’s, couldn’t tear it away for the life of him. His mind is in endless replay mode, flashing back to the amulet and Dean’s reply, that softness, those lips… How would it feel to lick between them?

“Hey.” Dean hooks two fingers into the sleeve of his shirt, lets his thumb tease Sam’s skin underneath before moving his hand up to Sam’s cheek.

“It’s my favourite.” Sam whispers, and for a second, he thinks Dean is going to laugh. Who the hell cares about his purple dog shirt when it’s _happening,_ when Dean’s eyelids lower, when he’s pulling Sam in, closer and closer, too fast, not fast enough, when he’s going to do it...

“I like it.” Dean replies just as softly, then closes the distance and kisses Sam’s lips open.

He tastes like chewing gum and sunshine bottled into a sigh, and he’s smiling, Sam can feel how his mouth wobbles when their tongues meet. His stubble, sparse as it is, rubs against Sam’s chin and tickles. The pads of his fingers slip down behind Sam’s ear to tilt his head just-so until Sam feels laid wide open and cherished.

Is he doing this well? He’s trying to mirror whatever Dean does, nipping and licking, wandering past Dean’s teeth when Dean all but climbs into his lap in encouragement. The bubble gum taste explodes there, sweet and fruity-fresh, and Sam pulls back to snicker at the strange feeling and the realisation that hits him. “Did you plan this?”

Dean laughs through his blush and runs his hand down Sam’s forearm as though he can’t stop touching the bare skin there. “It was Plan B.” He says. “Knew you wouldn’t say no after a test drive.”

“Prick.” Sam grins and thinks, there may just be a way out of the void after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think of this part?


	3. Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean falls hard and fast while Sam meets John and finds the rotten core.

 

Two weeks into their relationship they have already evolved from scaring the shit out of their classmates to vicious sulking whenever someone tries to separate them. One of their teachers have pulled Sam aside after class, asking predictable questions that suggest this isn’t normal, as though Sam doesn’t know that. He knows but doesn’t fucking care. Dean is his in every way Dean wants it and vice versa. They wouldn’t give a fuck when Don almost broke his arm, but suddenly they are all concerned about his mental wellbeing. Right. Scared, that’s what they are, of having their little class plans ruined. Who the hell cares about those?

These pampered, weak things can’t seem to grasp that he and Dean both belong to the shadows, where their monsters are the prey and all charred souls blend into the gloom. Where Sam’s bruises give him strength and the yawning gap in Dean’s heart is the force that drives him forward. It's a world that only survivors understand, and fairies behind picket fences will never see beyond its rusty surface.

He and Dean have never really been bad for the limelight, it wasn’t about wanting to stand out - it was their inability to fit in on their own.

But now, as they settle into each other’s pull, everything seems to balance out and make sense. Sam’s violence is curbed and Dean’s marks start climbing up. Home is still a disaster and life isn't the most appealing either, but Sam doesn’t lose sight of the tunnel’s end anymore. He starts looking forward to things with hope, something he hasn’t done since his high school years began, because he has someone who knows his struggle from the inside. He and Dean fold into each other, wanting more and more with every passing day.

That’s how Sam ends up twenty miles out in the country, sitting on the Impala’s hood and watching the night sky from a deserted hilltop. The stars blur together if he stares at them too long. It’s a fifty-fifty whether he will be punished for this or not, because if his Mom notices he isn’t home and cares enough to cry, then Don can't enjoy her body and the solution to that, naturally, is taking it out on Sam.

He wonders what that bastard would do if he knew why he stayed away. Don isn’t a big fan of equality and free love - it’s a miracle he hasn’t yet torn Sam’s purple shirt apart.

“Does it bother you?” Sam asks, tracking the gleam of a plane as it soars high above them, to a new place and new people, far into the distance.

Dean tears his gaze away from the starlight. “What?”

“That we’re both guys.”

“Dad’s cool with it.” He says, like that’s the only factor that matters in his own stance on the matter. “He’s a good guy when the bottle’s still full.”

At least Dean has that. Sam can't really remember what kind of a woman his Mom is without alcohol or her “salt”.

“Why? Are you freaking out on me?” Dean whispers and kisses the corner of his lips.

“No. I don’t know. I mean…” Sam doesn’t care about the gay thing. It isn’t a crime or some sickness he can cure, he knows, and as long as he wants it… He just didn’t expect it. Thought he would live a few more years in his lonely void, then either kill himself or irritate someone into doing it for him. Thinking back, he can hardly believe he gave this thing with Dean a chance at all. “I wanted to hate you.”

“Sammy, you went on a date with me the day we met.”

“What? No, that wasn’t - did you count that as a date?”

“Of course.” Dean laughs. “You got me hot and bothered in a sec. Wanted to hook up with you from the start.” He kisses Sam’s neck and lingers there, mumbles the rest into Sam’s collarbone as though he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t know you would make me feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like... I’m worth something. Like there’s more out there, I just gotta take it. You know, not just monster hunting and shit.” He jokes, but it falls flat from the cutting honesty of it.

Dean is happy - and not only that, but content too. He’s okay with the way things are, where they are going most of the time. He isn’t here to explore, he’s in for the real deal for the first time in his life. Not that he knows it, not really, but Sam feels the shift in him, how he changes from the fuckboy he used to be according to his own stories.

But Sam isn’t sure yet, can’t predict if he’ll still like this one month in or a year, and what about the sex? What if he’s a disaster, incompatible with Dean’s expectations? If he invests too much into this connection only to lose it because he doesn’t know himself well enough, he’s going to die. He hasn’t climbed out of the void yet, neither is he really happy. Life has barely begun to feel worthy of the fight again, he isn’t ready to cope with any kind of disappointment. He just has to hope that Dean will wait until he catches up with his emotions.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.” He admits, nosing into Dean’s short hair because he feels obsessed, wants to rub himself all over Dean’s body until he’s high on it.

“Me neither.” Dean mouths his way up to Sam’s lips in response.

One of his legs hooks over Sam’s thigh and shifts until Dean’s hardness grinds into Sam’s hip, up and down in tiny jerks that drive Sam to the verge of combustion. God, please… He wants Dean to come on him, in his hand, shake out his pleasure right there in a field of wild-grown grass and knee-high weed, on hard metal instead of soft sheets, with only the night wind as their blanket. He wants to smear his own come on Dean’s skin and feel how their desire smells cooling on the planes of freckles there.

He unzips his pants and puts Dean’s hand under the cloth, lets little grunts escape into their kiss until the peak takes his voice away. They have done this before, through clothes and with their dicks hanging out of them, but Sam is desperate to up his dose now, because while his own satisfaction is a fleeting bliss, seeing Dean’s will cloud his mind golden for the rest of the night. He props himself up to roll them over, one big hand on each of Dean’s hips, but as soon as Dean’s flat on the hood, his body starts a slow slide down and takes Sam’s along.

They burst out laughing when they stop halfway off the car.

“Baby wouldn’t like it if we made a mess of her.” Dean pipes up, then stares when Sam breaks into giddy laughter again.

“What?” Sam tries to rein in the smile on his face and fails.

“I’m not used to seeing you this happy.” Dean admits, and there it is, the one topic that could make Sam’s skin crawl. It’s hypocritical, but he doesn’t want to share his own rotting parts, wants to see and cure only Dean’s. He’s not yet prepared to be as vulnerable as Dean unconsciously offers himself to be.

“Come home with me.” Dean kisses the frown from his brows, from the dip of his mouth, down over the sharpness of his jaw.

Sam bares his neck to the bites they are both dying for and nods. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

In the car, Sam wondered if he was going to lose his virginity when they got there, but he needn’t have worried. Apparently, Dean meant coming home as coming to meet the parents. Parent. Dad. John Winchester.

Sam gets it in ten seconds flat that this isn’t a frequent occurrence. Probably a _never_ kind of occurrence, but that actually scares him a little, so he chooses to think otherwise. It might even be something of a marvel, if the astonishment in John’s drink-hazy eyes is anything to go by.

“Hey, Dad. This is Sam. Sam Wesson.” Dean brushes his Dad's shoulder with an awkward little bounce in his step, as if he has just swallowed back an _I told you about him, remember?_ This is so important to him that his iron-hard composure splits right open and gapes.

It solidifies that Sam doesn’t ever wants to introduce Dean to his mother. He wouldn’t be able to bear the anger and hurt on his face, or the indifference on hers.

“Why th’ tw’ of you, son.” John staggers, eyes rolling to the side and out of focus for a second before they right themselves. “Imma sleep.”

He excuses himself to the dirty mattress in the corner of the room, collapses and starts snoring away.

“Sorry. He was clean for a while before they laid him off back in Dallas. It came back with the new job.” Dean toes at an empty beer can until it rolls away. There's an ugly couch in the middle of the room - he swipes another can off it and throws himself down on the cushions. “But he’s so much like you when he’s sober. I’m sure you will get along.”

Sam bets there’s a psychological theory that explains why Dean has a crush on someone who resembles his dad, and another on the reasons why Sam should be appalled, but who gives a fuck. They are both broken, but their jagged edges fit into each other, they make one whole together. Where Sam ends and Dean begins in that piece doesn’t matter.

Sam isn’t surprised that Dean isn't embarrassed by his living conditions, but it gives him a pleased tingle in his gut. He doesn’t care that it’s a shabby one-bedroom littered by beer cans and liquor bottles, because even through that, he can feel the love here. It’s in the small things, the details. In the lack of dirty dishes in the sink, in the handwritten note stuck to a box of cookies - _don’t forget to eat, Dad_ -, in the dust-free floors and the clean-smelling furniture. Not counting the crap John must have scattered around this afternoon, the apartment isn’t dirty. It’s almost a home, however battered it is, and Sam wants to stay here and never leave again. It’s not glamorous by any means, but there's care here, love, even, and that warmth has been missing from Sam’s life too long not to cling to it now.

“He’s out for the night.” Dean sighs and pulls Sam in by his belt loops as soon as he ambles close enough to catch. “TV or sleep?”

They end up doing the trash version of netflix and chill, watching cable and necking on a creaking couch until they fall asleep together, not even making it inside Dean’s room and into a proper bed.

 

In the morning, Sam wakes up with a blanket on his torso and the smell of grease in his nose. He can hear Dean humming by the stove and a deep male voice lecturing some unfortunate guy on the phone.

Sam grins. He hasn’t had such a good morning in months.

He has a country-sized hickey on his neck, but he can’t come up with anything to hide it and John has probably seen it already, so he just smooths a hand down his rumpled shirt and crosses the living room to the tiny kitchen. Dean smiles at him from behind the stove, barefoot and sleep-creased. Sam would worship him on his knees if they didn’t have an audience and he knew how to start.

John ends his call and takes a sip of his coffee, dark eyes fixed on Sam with unexpected interest. “Sam, right? Pleased to finally meet you.” He offers a hand.

As they shake, Sam is proud to note his palm is even bigger than John’s, if not as work-rough and calloused. He doubts he could take the guy one-on-one, but he could sure put up a good fight if he needs to. John squints at the mark on his neck, but he doesn’t comment, lets it slide. Just as well - Sam refuses to be apologetic about it, especially when John says nothing of the drunken welcome they received last night.

“My boy treats you right?” John asks after a long pause.

"Of course, sir."

“Good.” The man’s eyes twinkle with good humour. He finishes his coffee, then gathers his wallet and keys, jerking his chin in Dean’s direction. “Dean. Rufus is coming over at six, he’ll wanna see the car. Make sure it’s clean enough. And don’t forget your training.”

Dean all but stamps his feet and snaps to attention at the order. “Yessir.”  


“Boys.” John mutters, and with a curt nod, he is out of the house.

In the tense silence that follows, Dean shuts off the stove and starts bagging the empty beer cans that are still lying around. His face is blank, but that muscle in his jaw is pulled tight again and doesn’t relax even when Sam sets out to help with the trash. Sam’s stunned by the abrupt soldier mode - it’s a side of Dean he hasn’t seen before and didn’t really expect either.  


“It’s not your job to clean up his shit.” He mutters when Dean ties off the bag.

“Did I ask you?” Dean snaps so angrily that Sam almost startles.

Fucking hell, so this is it. The rotten core, the main source of the haunted darkness in Dean’s green eyes. It’s not the alcohol, no, even though Sam thought it would be - it’s the unfairness in how John treats him, countering Dean’s need to please with that drill sergeant attitude. Perhaps Dean doesn’t feel like he has any leverage to fight his dad, so he goes against the world instead and pretends his fear is invincibility.

But Sam doesn’t want to be lumped with every other part of that world, he wants Dean to trust him and let them become stronger together, so he figures an apology is in order. “I’m sor-”

“Me too.” Dean cuts him off, hands stilling in the soapy water that fills the sink, John’s breakfast plate half-washed in his grip. “You’re right. I should stop.”

Sam steps up behind him and wraps his arms around his chest, resting his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. He gets it, he went through a phase like this, when he thought his Mom would love him if he made her happy enough. If he became good enough. He had to learn that some people just aren’t capable of the sentiment. “But you don’t know how.”

Dean shrugs, but his eyes stay suspiciously downcast to hide his pain. He has no idea how to let go of those surreal expectations - he's trapped in the routine of this skewed family system, just like Sam is in his own. Just like him.

Sam squeezes him tighter and thinks, _not for long now._

 

* * *

 

How it happened is a mystery, but a week later the entire school knows that they are dating. They didn’t put too much effort into hiding it, of course, but except for that one teacher, everyone thought it was just two losers sticking together to discuss their creepy shit. Now it's back to gawking and snide gossip. The school’s chatterboxes jump on the topic like hungry vultures, whisper about the kinky, illegal sex they assume he and Dean have. Sam couldn't care less who knows the truth and how they take it, it's not like they have any influence whatsoever on Dean - until a group decides to attack them for it.

They take Sam by surprise. It's his mistake, he should have known the first outed couple of the school will draw the wrong kind of attention too.

They catch him at the edge of his own neighbourhood, and that's what makes his stomach shrink with fear, not the gang that corners him into a fence. If Don wanders by and hears it, or some other shady guy decides to have some fun too… But after the initial panic fades, he reminds himself that it doesn't matter. Someone's going to beat him anyway, if not today, then tomorrow. There's no escaping the pain, only buying yourself some delay, one day at a time.

He guesses they chose him as a target because Dean looks more dangerous, someone who might have a weapon tucked under his ill-fitting clothes. The fools have no fucking idea that it’s always the quiet ones who snap the hardest and have the sharpest claws.

Once the ice-cold calm settles in his mind, Sam lets himself detach from his emotions until there’s nothing but the acid of his anger in his mouth. Without the incessant, reflexive fear, he can assess the situation much better. He glances around for escape routes, and suddenly, it clicks - these are Muscly, Brainless and their overgrown friend from the first floor bathroom. Gosh, how didn’t he notice it before? So it's to avenge the gigantic hit their egos have taken after they realised it was the gay boy who ruined their fun. How dumb do they have to be to come back for seconds?

The burliest one opens his smirking mouth to deliver an insult, trying to look menacing even though he only comes up to Sam’s chin in height.

 _No, thanks,_ Sam thinks and kicks generations of unborn Burlies into an excruciating death. The other two jump on him in retaliation, but he can fight really fucking dirty if he wants and bites one of their forearms in spite of the split lip they give him. The only guy who’s not groaning in pain actually recoils when Sam grins at him with blood smeared on his chin and the white of his teeth. His wounds don't hurt when his heart is frozen stone.

The guy’s hesitation is enough to open the space for an escape, and Sam springs for it, wrestles past the one with the bleeding hand and manages to hit the throat of the last one blocking his way. Now, out in the open, he’s much harder to gang up on, and the idiots know it too. They spew a few token slurs at him, but ultimately, even their pea-sized brains get it that they had better back off and lick their wounds.

“We’ll get you, fag.” One of them spits out the window of their car, then off they go with shrieking tires and a coughing engine.

“I'm right here, you fucking cowards!” Sam spreads his arms and yells after their trail of smoke until his throat feels raw and the blood on his lip stops trickling. Shit, how is he going to tell Dean?

 

He tries to clean up the best he can when he gets home, but the swollen redness of his bottom lip just wouldn't heal fast enough, no matter how long he holds his makeshift cold compress to it. When Don comes barging in sniffing and disoriented, Sam gives up on it altogether and hightails it out of there before the drug-induced paranoia sets in.

Dean is supposed to pick him up at their meetup spot in two hours, so he figures that's enough time to contemplate his life on a park bench. Perhaps he should call off their makeout-date and sleep at a playground instead. Whatever. He just doesn't want… He doesn’t want Dean to be angry. He's the only one Sam cares about who hasn't yet scared him like that.

He walks forty minutes feeling like absolute shit until he finds a green area big enough to hide in and too fancy for his mother's kind. It's getting dark, but Sam isn't afraid. The streets of this lovely district are much safer than home anyway. There aren't many places that could be worse than Don's house.

The garage Dean works at is only a few blocks away, but Sam’s stomach rolls from his shame so badly that he bends over and gags up bile into a broken trash bin. It burns his throat coming up and aches behind his eyes when he swallows the rest down. Fuck it, he's not going to cry. It has been months since he last did.

He starts crossing the park at random, searching for a seat that isn't decorated by pigeon shit, when the harsh whoosh of shoes treading on grass breaks his trance. Stiffening in alarm, his head whips to the right and - holy shit, that’s Dean!

He’s running back and forth between two trees, not far beyond the bushes that block Sam from his view. Some older black dude is standing there with a timer, beer bottle in his hand.

“Faster, boy, you think I got all day? Your father had better have that whiskey ready tomorrow…” He growls, and Sam instantly hates him. What the fuck are they training for?

It's another fifteen minutes until the man leaves. He mutters one last jab at Dean’s physique, then downs his beer and marches away, leaving Dean in the middle of his push-ups. As much as Sam loves Dean all sweaty and flushed, he feels equally amused and sorry for him when he collapses like a starfish and pulls the hem of his soaked shirt over his face.

Sam grins as wide as his aching lip lets him.

_I’m here. Had to leave early_

He texts, and watches as Dean groans and feels around in the grass for the phone chirping there. It's all he can do not to laugh when Dean makes an even louder noise, types something, then puts the phone on his forehead to work on his will to move for a few more minutes.

_ gotta do smthg 4 dad. 30 min. _

_I’ll hang out with this cute guy until then_

Dean sits up so fast he sheds the grass stuck to his hair on his own shoulders.

 _who_  

He demands immediately.

_ sam! _

_Handsome and very sweaty. Likes candy. Has a black car._

Sam waits for it with bated breath, shuffling closer, bent over so as not to be seen.

And then he waits some more.

When Dean’s eyebrows refuse to lose the jealous frown and he starts typing again, Sam rolls his eyes and sends another clue.

_Kinda dumb though_

Oddly enough, that's when the storm on Dean’s face clears and he clambers up to sweaty-trembling legs, a huge smile on his lips. He squints into the nothing behind him, turning in place until he spots Sam behind the bushes at long last. “Sammy!”

“Nice shorts.” Sam teases and straightens up, lets Dean jog up to him and envelop his coltish body in a grossly damp, smelly hug.

“Hey.” He grins at the enthusiasm and kisses Dean’s cheek to sate his giddiness. It's the stupidest thing he could have done. His wound not only splits back open, but starts bleeding so heavily that it dribbles down Dean’s shirt like some grotesque modern painting. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Jesus.” Dean shifts into instant worry wart mode, peering at the cut and wincing in sympathy. “You okay?”

Sam presses the hem of his shirt to it and nods. Fuck, he hopes Dean won’t go livid when he realises what happened. “Just three assholes asking for a kick in the ass.”

Although Sam expected shouting, it doesn't come - when Dean’s satisfied with his assessment, he closes his eyes and forcibly relaxes that life-hardened muscle in his jaw.

“I bet they went home crying.” He whispers and kisses Sam’s moles, one after the other, until the bleeding dries out. There's little doubt he has seen much worse before. The blood on his shirt leaves him completely unfazed.

“What are you training for?” Sam cuts into the silence, uncomfortable from the gentle reaction.

God, he wants to smack himself. Why do his feelings come and go like fat, annoying flies in the wind? Why isn't he okay when he gets what he wanted? What more does he need to be happy? Sometimes it feels like nothing in the world would suffice, because he's too deep down in the void to appreciate what he has.

“Dad is a vet. Training is important to him.” Dean says, instead of answering the question. “He is… hard to understand sometimes. One of my first memories is him tackling the delivery guy because he thought our front yard was a minefield. I don't want to upset him.”

“I can imagine.”

“I don't think he could ever fit here properly, you know?” Dean averts his eyes. “Having to stay with me after Mom… it was...”

Saying it is futile, Sam knows, but not hearing it is worse than screwing a nail into your arm, and he can't do that to Dean. He must stress what no one ever tells him when his Mom destroys yet another level of their lives.

“It's not your fault.”

Dean looks at him then, and the last layer of his shiny facade cracks to leave the raw insides for Sam to take in, beautiful and sad. _I hate myself,_ his eyes say. _I hate the world,_ Sam’s answer.

“None of it is.” Sam tells him out loud.

Dean clears his throat and bats at Sam’s free hand with his fingers. “Sometimes I’m afraid he’s losing his mind.”

There's no explanation - maybe it’s Dean’s honesty or this clusterfuck of a day, or the empty, somber little park where no one but two boys and a sleeping bum stay out this long - Sam doesn't know why, but he shares the one thing he hasn't been able to say even once this year.

“Dean?” He whispers, rocking back and forward once. His voice cracks. “My Mom is addicted to cocaine.”

Dean’s exhale washes over his face and the dried blood on his chin itches from its weight. “I know. Some dude told me when we started hanging out. Said he was doing me a favor.”

“You knew all this time?”

“Wondered why you wouldn’t tell me.”

Sam has never wanted to cry more in his life, but the tears remain stubbornly welled up in his eyes, making his vision all hazy and distorted. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head and pulls him into an embrace that makes Sam feel small and safe again, after so long a time of trying to be tough. “We’re such a pair of fuck-ups.”

“Yeah.” Sam hiccups and smiles. Who knew that the worst part of his life would give him serenity one day? “We are.”

 

* * *

 

Ever since that pitiful attack against Sam, Dean seems to have declared it his mission to show everyone he can do whatever the fuck he wants. He kisses Sam in front of the entire cafeteria and casually pulls out a knife so big that even the most bull-headed bullies tuck their tails between their legs at the sight.

Sam just sighs and pretends not to watch as Dean carves their initials into the table, too aroused by the wild force of it to even dream of reasoning with him.

On Sam’s birthday, Dean buys them condoms and lube, slaps them down in front of the cashier simple as that, unashamed, then grabs a pack of candy too like an afterthought and winks lewdly at her rosary.

“We’ll need the fuel.” He grins and smacks Sam’s butt.

Sam would be just as scandalised as the middle-aged woman behind them if he wasn't so goddamn _horny._ As it is, he just shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets and blushes through the adrenaline rush that pumps in his veins. Oh, he’s going to bitch at Dean in the car, but honestly? He doesn’t mind. He knows this is Dean’s aggressive defense system, and for all his complaints, he likes that stupid boy the way he is.

They drive back to their little hilltop and park in the shade of a lone tree to make out in the backseat with both of the doors opened wide. The lukewarm breeze blows through the car and cools the sweat on Sam’s nape. He can’t say he missed the summer weather, but its sun-soaked warmth feels kind of nice. Everything smells like blooming flowers and sex.

A patch of the seat is lit up by a stray ray of sunshine, and it burns Sam’s naked back when Dean lays him down on it. He hisses and squirms away from the heated leather, cursing the sheen of moisture above his waistband that sticks to the upholstery. Dean laughs and cards his fingers through Sam’s damp hair to push it back from his forehead.

"I fucking love this car." Sam mutters, dripping sarcasm. Dean blows a raspberry into his neck. “Hey!”

“Loosen up, Sammy.” He teases. “Baby’s awesome. Dad gave her to me when he won that beat-up truck on poker.”

It's amazing how much Dean admires his father despite all his faults and shortcomings. If only Sam had someone like that as a parent, someone he can still have that childish hope in...

“I wish I had a dad.” He confesses quietly. Growing up, he often imagined what kind of a person he could have been. He liked to think he was someone who would have taken him away if he knew. “Mom doesn’t even know who it was. Could have been anyone."

Dean hums, laces their fingers together and stretches their joined hands up above Sam’s head, where the sunlight is licking the edge of the seat. “Even my Dad, huh?”

Sam chortles, brightening up again. He can feel it against his hip, how hard Dean is, how aroused Sam makes him. The line of his cock feels so big… God, what if they finally have actual sex? Sam is _so_ ready to have that inside of him. "We could really be brothers."

Dean snorts. "You would be one bratty little brother.”

He doesn't look put-off by the idea though, and Sam thinks they both might be a little sick, but he is more turned on by the thought than he expected. Being Dean’s brother, the possibility of an even deeper connection sets off a spark in his spine. Christ, he wants Dean so bad it’s pain. “Do you think that would have stopped this?"

"Nah." Dean licks at the hollow between Sam’s collarbones. "Would have wanted you anyway."

As they shift to cradle each other better, Sam’s left leg slips down into the footwell and leaves him spread out, pants unbuttoned and boxers tenting. He groans. “Fuck.”

“Hmm.” Dean hums and nips his way down Sam’s bare stomach, explores the concave curve of it until it quivers. He pushes his hands under Sam’s ass then and pulls, and the clothes peel away from his groin like nothing, sticky and useless sheets of fabric.

“Here we go.” Dean murmurs as he takes Sam’s cock in hand. Sam can’t look at him, he’s so flustered by the obscene sight. He’s out of breath and doesn’t know why, knows he's going to embarrass himself but he already feels like coming too soon. He zones out every other second from the whipcord pleasure of Dean stroking and pulling up and down, and he thought he was used to that.

“Such a big boy.” Dean goes on, and kisses him where he’s leaking and exposed.

Sam has to dig his nails into his palms to keep from covering his burning cheeks with them. Does he look normal down there? Did Dean mean he likes it?

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Dean blows over Sam’s burning skin, then makes a tiny sigh of satisfaction and leans down to suck.

“Oh God.” Sam groans.

He is doing his best not to let his soul depart his body through his cock, but it might be a long-lost battle, especially when Dean pries his fingers apart to hold on. The truth is, he knows Dean has done this several times before, but that just makes it all the more precious that Dean’s fingers shake. He wants this to be so good that he’s nervous about it. It reminds Sam that as hard-edged and strong Dean is, he’s only four months older than him and twice as eager to please the people he loves than Sam will ever be.

Sam pushes himself to his elbows and watches as Dean's eyes flick up to his face, the ring of his lips stretched wide. He's the prettiest thing Sam has ever touched in his life. His brain short-circuits, but he wills himself to be coherent enough to get some reassurance across. “That's so hot, Dean. So fucking hot.”

Dean closes his eyes and the sheer contentment on his face, of being good enough, wanted enough to be praised, takes Sam’s breath away. Both of his thighs tense to thrust and he knows it will be soon, but...

What… What should he… Where is he supposed to come? Ugh. Does Dean want him to say a warning? But he has no idea how fast he will get there. He doesn’t want to tell Dean too early and then fail to come, but making him swallow is worse, so… But maybe a little more… Just a little…

Oh God.

“Dean -” Sam puts a hand on Dean’s head and just barely holds onto his pleasure long enough for Dean to pull away. He must be weird about this too, but Sam doesn't go boneless as he comes, he imagines gripping Dean’s hair and owning him instead of petting it, he sees flashes of roughness in his mind and shudders from desiring them.

Dean shushes him with soft kisses against his hip bone until he does go limp, then it’s a quick wipe down and long minutes of white-noise-bliss. Sam kind of wants to ask how it tasted and if he did okay or not, but it doesn’t look like Dean realised he hasn’t done this before, so Sam sure as hell can’t give it away now.

“You've been holding out on me.” Dean grins up at him, the cheeky slip of his tongue peeking out between his teeth, and Sam wants to tie him down and mark him all over.

When he drags Sam’s pants back up to tuck him away, something falls out of a pocket. Sam grabs for it, but Dean snatches it away, holds it up and beams even brighter at his find. “I knew it!”

“Come on, just cause I forgot and left that in my pocket, I don't like photobooths.” Sam grumbles. It's a keepsake from one of their dates - fooling around with whatever they could find at the mall for no more than five dollars. He complained about spending money on this when they could have just taken some selfies, but Dean insisted, and here they are. Sam is busted, because he does like the tangible photos they got out of it.

“Your face.” Dean snickers and points at the wrinkled nose Sam pulled when Dean squished their cheeks together.

“Shut up.” Sam smiles and lowers his head back down to stare at the car's roof. He caresses down along Dean’s neck to his spine, over the bump of a muscle tensing in his shoulder, then back up to his hair until his fingers run through the short strands at his nape.

Dean scoots up and hides his face in Sam’s chest, kissing so, so close to his heart that he might just stop it. “Sam.”

“Hm?” Sam keeps stroking behind Dean's ear, but he has to clench his other hand into a fist. Oh no. No, no, no. This isn't what he thinks this is, right? He knows how Dean feels, it was a spectacle how fast he fell into this pit of emotions, but Sam isn't there yet. If Dean confesses something, can he say it back? Would it be a lie? He isn't ready. He isn't.

How do you accept that someone cares when you forgot how untainted love feels?

“I…” Dean starts, dead serious, but chickens out at the last moment and lets the cheekiness back into his voice. “Happy birthday. I hope it didn't su-”

“Only your sense of humor does.”

The giggle bubbling up Sam’s throat carries his relief and washes out the bitterness behind his teeth. He hates that he's ruined - that he’s so afraid that his emotions are all crippled and twisted into each other. Can he let himself love Dean? Really love him, with the crash and burn affection Dean feels? What if the answer is no?

What if it's yes?

 


	4. Marble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find the strength to move on.

 

 

Sam didn’t expect love to make him flip between even wilder extremes than usual. As the school year comes to an end, his academic scores hit the ceiling and he doesn’t piss his teachers off anymore, but he gets mouthy at home. Starts calling people out on their shit. Almost gets himself shot one night, fighting with Don about getting his Mom to the rehab center he looked up online. Don doesn’t let Sam take her, but gladly offers to hook her up with a new dealer who has the best shit in the city, apparently.

Half an hour later, Sam calls Dean from the bus stop down the street, hunched over and rubbing his eyes to keep the tears at bay. Everything he owns is in the duffle bag on his shoulder. What is he supposed to do? She’s going to die. He knows she is, not tonight, but soon enough if things don’t change. What if he could have saved her, if only he was a little better? What if it was him who tossed her into this mindless downward spiral?

Whatever. Nothing ever changes for the better anyway.

When Dean picks it up, he sounds like death warmed over, and that makes Sam miserable with guilt. What was he thinking? He knew John got the boot again and Dean had to work day and night this week to make up for it and get the rent money. He had to skip the last week of school. And here Sam is, being a nuisance when the poor thing tries to get some sleep. He's a burden on everyone.

“I’m sorry, I know you are tired -”

“I’ll be there in fifteen.” Dean clips his apology in the bud.

A belt buckle clicks into place on the other end of the line, keys get scooped up from a table. Dean breathes out as his door creaks shut. He sounds so tired. Sam kicks at a broken needle on the ground and watches it roll into the dirty puddle that fills a crack in the asphalt. The half-finished butt of a cigarette sticks out of the murky water like a lone ship going nowhere. Why does everything stink of decomposition?

“This is so fucked-up.” Sam whispers. The closest street light flickers.

“Hey. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Dean's voice sounds reassuring even through the phone, but it’s not enough. Sam needs to have his hands on him to feel that there's still some stability in the world. It all feels fickle and foggy-grey right now.

“How? You gonna put a bullet through his skull?” Silence. A honk blares in the background, but Dean remains quiet, nothing but controlled breathing and the faint sound of footsteps. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “It was just a stupid joke.”

“I could.” Dean tells him slowly. He means it. “I would.”

“Dean, no. Don’t even... I’ll just go to the station and hop on a bus, go as far as it will take me. I’d be out of her life. That would be the best.”

“Not for me.” The admission fades into silence.

Sam holds back his apologies, but nothing else makes it to his mouth, he can't think of anything that's not seeking forgiveness. His mind screams at him to run and forget, but it's impossible now, he’s almost sure it is. He should have made up his mind sooner, should have left while the strongest link that bound him here was that fraying, dying cord he had with his Mom. He should have cut it before Dean.

“Just stay put and we’ll figure it out together, okay?” Dean says, and the engine of his car rumbles in agreement.

The bus hisses to a stop in front of Sam, mud-speckled doors opening with a bang. A middle-aged woman with bags under her eyes gives him a knowing look from behind the wheel. How many kids has she picked up from this stop knowing they will never come back? Does she know how the agony of that decision feels? He could let her be his savior - all it would take is a step to the puke-coloured seats inside. One step and he would never have to see these filthy streets again. He could do it. He wouldn't leave behind more than an empty bedroom and a broken heart.

“Sam?”

His name is enough. The bus driver inclines her head, but Sam’s legs wouldn't move. His resolution melts and the chance slips away. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“I’m coming.”

“Thank you.” Sam wipes his eyes before he could shed a tear. He knows now that he loves Dean too much instead of not enough, and there's no pain that could make him run away from that today. So staying it is.

One step away, the bus doors swish closed, and the driver kicks the old metal beast into motion. She's smiling.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes after Sam sits into the car, Dean pulls over beside a graffiti-covered church that has been closed too long for anyone to care, and puts a gun on the dashboard. Sam glances between its foreboding barrel and the spray on the walls outside and wonders how everything became so hurtful in the world.

“I just want you to know.” Dean starts quietly. “That I… shot at people before.” He swallows, picks up the weapon again and strokes its silver grip. “It was self-defense.”

Sam nods. “Did they die?”

He doesn't care if they did, they couldn't have been good people and he lost all tolerance for bastards years ago. He just doesn't want Dean to torture himself over it. Because he would - he isn't the steel-boned hit man he tries to appear as whenever Sam feels visibly unsafe.

Biting his lip, Dean shakes his head.

“All right.” Sam says then and tries to pull the pistol away as gently as he can. “Promise me you won’t go after Don.”

Dean resists, a storm tensing the muscles of his jaw. “He would deserve it.”

He would, he _so_ would. But being right won't make Dean invulnerable and anger isn't enough to win against a guy who spends his days bargaining with drug dealers. Sam has been living with this truth his whole life. “Promise.”

Dean sighs. His hand goes limp under Sam’s, caught between Sam’s palm and the rigid metal. “I promise.”

Thank God.

Sam smiles and gives him a small kiss for it, presses his lips to Dean’s cheek and just stays there, soaking up his familiar smell and comfort until he can pretend nothing outside of the beloved Chevy exists. Nothing beyond their shiny black bubble. He could lull himself to sleep like this.

“Where did you get it anyway?” He tugs at the gun and moves his lips closer so that he could feel the prickle of Dean’s stubble against them.

“It’s Dad’s.” Dean huffs. “He says I should know how to use it ‘cause he wants me to enlist. That's why I can't quit school.”

Oh. Of course. Why didn’t Sam think of that sooner? Probably because planning for a future is the last thing on his mind. But he's been stupid, he should have known. It explains everything, the training, the fighting style, even that damn "monster hunting" joke. It was right in front of his eyes.

“Is that what you want?” He pulls back and cups Dean’s face.

It seems like Dean won't be able to answer. Sometimes, Sam thinks, it's a struggle for him to see the difference between his actual desires and the things expected of him, even though the line is there. It begins where the hurt starts. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

Dean kisses him hard enough for that little word that Sam’s lips throb. He wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and presses him to the back of the seat until Sam has to tilt his chin up into the kiss in surrender. The gun’s magazine digs into the small of his back, but it doesn't scare him. There’s a strange power in the knowledge that Dean won’t pull the trigger if he asks him not to.

“I don’t wanna talk anymore.” Sam mumbles against Dean's lips and nods when Dean asks if he's sure. Behind him, Dean's free hand draws his shirt up and traces a path down along his spine to the curve of his ass, sneaks under his boxers and squeezes. It's a hot counterpoint to the cold of the gun that rubs against his waist like a wordless supplication for love.

“Dad is out of town for the weekend.” Dean breathes warmth into his ear. "Stay the night?"

“Okay.” Sam grins. “Let's go.”

 

* * *

 

 

Although he's getting increasingly better the farther they are from the house, it speaks volumes of how much of a mess he still is that Dean lets him fuck around with the radio and find a song that suits his taste. The same bland techno crap is pouring from everywhere, but he chances upon a soft rock station and decides to stay there and keep Dean happy too with his choice. They go through three songs without saying a word. Then the Stones’ Angie comes on and Dean belts out the lyrics as though acting silly is the way to set the mood for the milestone they are definitely leaving behind tonight. And the damnedest thing is, it works.

 _“With no lovin’ in our souls and no money in our coats, you can’t say we're satisfiiiied.”_ Dean croons in a singing voice that barely has any tune at all, yet Sam’s dick is giving a standing ovation upon hearing it.

“Don’t sing that, it’s a break-up song!” Sam swats at him, face burning.

“Okay, okay. Shutting up now.” Dean laughs, so happy that the tired lines around his eyes disappear. He has a moving halo of streetlights around his head that comes and goes as Baby eats up the road ahead. His pistol lies on the dashboard, unassuming, like the twisted twin of a bobble head dog. Between the rhythmic flashes of light in the darkness, Sam thinks of the abandoned church they left behind. How much care would it need to have white walls again?

 

* * *

 

 

Is this the right moment? Sam doesn’t know. He doesn't have visions to tell him he's making a good choice here. There aren't any fireworks when Dean locks the front door behind them, and his heart doesn't stop at the first touch that skitters up his naked abdomen. He might not have calmed down enough to enjoy this properly, or Dean might be too exhausted to provide the attention Sam's body craves. Anything could go wrong.

Sam doesn't know. He wants it, but at the same time… He's terrified that once he opens up, Dean will see how ruined he is and discard him like just another candy wrapper. How should he even go about sharing these fears?

They are down to their pants and Dean is guiding him to lie down on the couch when he can’t take it anymore. He freaks out at the thought that his first time might happen on a ratty sofa, and the truth bubbles out in a fit of nerves he fails to control.

“Dean.” He rasps, hands fluttering between their bare chests. “I’ve never done this before.”

Dean blinks at him with those round eyes of his going sharp in an instant. “What?”

Sam doesn't know how to explain it. He didn't want to appear even more defective than he already is, so he let Dean assume he was only new to the gay part, not the whole sex and intimacy package. Let him carry on thinking that he messed around with chicks before. Awkward, isn't it? Is Dean going to be disappointed?

“There were no girls either.”

“Shit.” Dean drops his head to Sam’s sternum for a second, then scrapes himself together and presses his lips to Sam’s forehead for a quick, soothing peck. He rises to his tiptoes for it instead of pulling Sam down. Weirdly enough, that effortless gesture does a lot to ease some of Sam's reservations. “Wanna stop?”

“No.”

“All right.” Dean takes a deep breath through his nose, then lets his lips wobble into a smile that shows how excited he is. “We’ll go slow then.”

“Or you could just -” Sam jerks his chin at the back of the couch, salvaging some of his bravado, even as his cheeks burn from the discomfort of the thought. “- bend me over and do your thing.”

“No one gets to hurt you like that as long as I’m around.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.” He insists, though he doesn't even know why. There’s a knee-jerk resistance in him when he thinks people assume he’s weak. “I want it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t. Not like that.” Dean shakes his head and bites into his lower lip. His teeth leave fading white indents in its pink flesh when he lets it pop out of his mouth. He’s frowning. “Sam, this isn’t about that fight, right? Because I -”

Who knows, maybe it is, in part. But no way is Sam going to taint this night with thoughts of that fucker. So, what if he is riled up and it isn't only arousal? Just because he's a pathetic virgin, he doesn't need a fairy tale day with candles and roses to lose it.

“No. I’ve wanted it for a while now.”

After another moment of contemplation, Dean nods and pulls Sam into his room. It hasn't changed one bit since the last time Sam saw it - the paint is chipped where the doorknob has been banging into it for years, the nightstand has a book under one if its legs for balance and there's a car poster above the bed. One end of the curtain rod is hanging onto the wall by only half of a nail piercing the surface. The wardrobe is open and seems to have thrown up its contents inside, clothes hanging out of it in various states of clumsy folding. There's a bottle of coke on the floor next to the bed.

It's nothing new. Sam spent an evening here just three days ago and he found it homey. For some unknown reason, however, Dean starts fussing with the bedsheets he left there tangled and unmade when he got up to get Sam at the bus stop. He tries to straighten them and to fluff up his pillows, then picks up the coke bottle and attempts to hide it before putting it back where it originally was.

“What are you doing?” Sam lets out a short, confused laugh.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “I just... “

Holy shit, he is actually _flustered._

“I’m sorry I can’t make this -” He gestures around. “- any better. It shouldn’t be -” He goes to the wardrobe and stuffs the miscellaneous clothes back inside. “- maybe with the lights off?”

Sam thinks of all the inconsiderate, disgusting bastards his Mom shacked up with over the years, how some of them would have wanted to take this moment of happiness too, and he finds himself calming down and relaxing at long last. This may not be the perfect night, if that kinda thing exists at all, but he loves Dean and he won't regret doing it with _him._ And that's the thing that matters, isn't it? That he found a good person.

“Hey.” He takes hold of Dean’s right hand with both of his and kisses him into stillness. Who cares about coke bottles and appearance? “Relax.”

“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?” Dean mumbles into Sam's chin and pushes him down on the bed, hands on hips and knees between thighs.

"Admit it. You’re a dork." Sam replies with a smile.

The sheets are worn-soft under his naked back, creased comfortable in the shape of a person who rarely moves in his sleep. He spent a few nights here before and discovered that he loves burrowing into the dip Dean leaves in the old mattress when he gets up to make breakfast. It’s cozy and carries the sense of connection he never stops yearning for. With that under him and Dean's body wrapped around his own, he feels completely enveloped in warmth and affection.

"I’m a dork." Dean mouths his words into the tender spot behind Sam's ear. Sam has a distinct suspicion that he has no idea what he’s talking about anymore.

Getting the rest of their clothes off passes in a blur, it's just denim dropping on the floor in careless heaps and Dean's nails drawing barely-there lines down Sam's thighs as they slip his boxers away. Sam is a bit embarrassed that he’s leaking, smearing wetness all over Dean’s stomach when Dean lowers himself, but Dean's smooth body pressed to his from chest to toes is too hot to handle without getting wanton.

When Dean leans down to share a kiss, the pendant of his amulet dangles down and rests between Sam's collarbones.

Sam curls his fingers around the cheap black cord and keeps the back of his hand against Dean's racing pulse. “You’re still wearing it.”

Dean just kisses him again, with his thumbs under Sam's jaw and his fingers tangled in the soft locks of hair at Sam's nape.

 _I love you,_ Sam thinks, but the globs of lead still residing in his lungs keep him from saying it out loud. _I love you._ How do you reach the point when you dare say it even though your own mom failed that feeling half of your life? It’s scary, taking that step.

The broken bedside lamp leaves a fissure-shadow on the wall, a break in its orange light, and Sam stares at that, unseeing from the mix of jitters and pleasure as Dean starts preparing him. It’s kind of weird and embarrassing, being touched down there, but Dean’s expression of wonder never wavers, and Sam’s muscles slowly relax. Dean noses at his neck and Sam wonders if it smells pleasant for him there, if he's happy to have Sam laid bare like this or not. How does he compare to all those faceless others Dean had before?

He can't breathe when Dean starts pushing inside, that blunt pressure is so new and overwhelming. God... It spreads him wide open like nothing before. The space between them gets really warm and the room seems stuffy, and Sam feels self-conscious of the sweat beading along his hairline. Does it feel nice for Dean? Did they use enough lube?

"You're too tense." Dean licks his lips in concentration. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.” Sam strokes Dean’s chest tentatively, then makes an effort at raising his legs a bit higher, eventually crossing his ankles behind Dean's round butt. “Is this good?”

“God, yes. We're almost there.”

“I feel so awkward.” Sam rubs his elbow, shielding himself in his embarrassment. If this goes on for much longer, he’s going to call it off as a disaster and die in shame. Are first times really this uncomfortable for everyone, or is it just him who messes things up? He feels like he should be shorter, should have a body that’s smaller than Dean’s. And that’s definitely _not_ the case. “I’m too big.”

“You _aren't.”_ Dean stresses, but when nothing progresses in the next minute, he pulls out. As much as he was inside in the first place, that is. “Okay, hold on.”

Sam closes his eyes and tries not to imagine how he looks right now, naked and mortified. “Sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Dean kisses his shoulder, then plants his hands on Sam’s left side and rolls him towards the wall until he’s on his stomach. He draws Sam’s left leg up and settles draped over him, back to chest, hips to ass. He presses his lips to the back of Sam’s neck and pushes back inside. “Better?”

It is. So much better. Sam doesn’t feel oversized and ungainly anymore, just big enough to be completely caught between Dean’s body and the mattress. With his hands now fisted in the sheets and with leverage to tilt up into Dean’s touch, he isn’t useless either. The heavy weight on his back is an anchor that holds him tight and gives him the illusion that it will never let go, that he can always have this - Dean holding him secure in his embrace.

“Yes, yes…” He makes a bitten-off moan when Dean slides in fully. “Am I - Should I -”

"You're fine, Sammy." Dean grunts into the curling hair at Sam's nape and rolls his hips as though he just can’t help it anymore. “This is perfect.”

Now that they have found a good position, everything speeds up and blows over pretty fast. Sam pushes himself up just enough to get a hand under himself and rides the waves like that, breath hitching whenever Dean grazes the right spot inside. He didn't think the noises would be this loud, and he certainly didn't expect Dean to be so bold about expressing his pleasure. It turns Sam on so much that he ends up coming first, furiously stroking himself until he all but ruins the bedsheets. It takes him by surprise - he thought he would be too nervous to come at all.

When they are both satisfied and gasping to catch their breaths, he shifts around until he can look up at Dean's face again.

The fucked-out expression that greets him is obscene and a little funny, and Sam is hit by such a sudden rush of happiness at the sight that he laughs. In return, Dean gives him a smile that could shine down to the darkest corners of Sam's void and proceeds to pepper kisses all over Sam’s neck and shoulders. "Was it good?"

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

"Just checking."

Sam shrugs, barely keeping his smile in check. "Not bad."

Grinning, Dean smacks his shoulder, then gets up for a towel to clean up. He dozes off pretty fast after they are done, exhausted as he is, but Sam stays awake a little longer to process the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind.

He had sex with Dean. He did it. It doesn’t make him feel any dirtier than he was, he’s just light. A soap bubble in the breeze - fragile and slippery, but for a moment or two, the purest, prettiest thing in the air.

He never really had the chance to admire Dean’s body before without it leading to anything more, but he noticed that there are scar lines on the left side of his chest, scary close to his heart. Shallow knife cuts, it seems now, outlining a half-circle with rays like a dark stamp of the sun. It must have been deliberate. Did Dean do this to himself as self-punishment for not being good enough? Or is it maybe a symbol?

“Stop thinking.” Dean half-snores, apparently still conscious enough to grumble at Sam for tracing that set of lines. “It was the first bastard I shot at.”

“Oh.” Sam hums. He should let Dean rest, but there's something hypnotic about caressing those scars and thinking about their origin.

“You won’t let me sleep until I fess up, huh? All right, Sammy-boy.” Dean grunts and throws an arm and a leg over Sam to drag himself even closer. God, he's such a lazy octopus. “I don’t tell this to everyone.”

“Lucky me then.” Sam smiles and kisses Dean just under his left eye, where his dark lashes fan out over the purpling circle too much stress and not enough sleep painted on the skin.

“Dad left me with the guy for a few days ‘cause the hospital wouldn’t let him out during his first detox.” Dean opens his eyes and gives Sam a sad look. “Guy was annoyed 'cause I cried for sunny-side-ups, thought it would teach me a lesson if he gave me another kind of sun. Then Dad came out and he went in.”

“Christ.”

“Hm. I was seven. First time I fired a gun - I missed by half a room, but the dick was spooked and tumbled down the stairs. That's Dad's version anyway.”

Something as precious as Dean's body shouldn't have been marred by anything. How could anyone think of harming it for the rest of his life? Sam understands why such things happen to him - he's annoying and disobedient, they have been telling him his whole life - but Dean isn't like that, he doesn't have demands. He was just a kid, abandoned by the only caretaker he really knew and left with an aggressive stranger. How could anyone let this happen?

"I might get a tattoo to cover it." Not at all disturbed by his own past, Dean grins and ducks down to kiss the spot above Sam's heart. "How about a matching one for you?"

Smiling, Sam shakes his head and presses his forehead to Dean's until they breathe the same humid air. It's sweat, toothpaste and fading laundry detergent, and them, together, one mix of a scent they rubbed into Dean's sheets. If only he could bottle it like a keepsake… Why is it that your brain remembers thousands of useless facts, but can never truly recall a smell? There's no way to save it. Once gone, it will never be yours again.

People always tell you love is beautiful, but they never say how scary it is to hold someone that precious to your heart. How vulnerable it makes you, having something to lose. Sam isn't ready. Dean is a glass marble he just wants to cradle in his hand and keep for himself, without once thinking of how brittle he is, how easy it is to shatter him and ruin his beauty.

He isn't ready, but he needs Dean to know, however unfamiliar the words taste on his tongue.

“I love you.” He whispers.

Dean's voice wavers in astonishment. “I love you too."

Their fingers skitter over each other like shy little pleas for reassurance. _Do you really?_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Back in May, Sam has found a job that does not include standing on the corner with a bag of his Mom's favourite and waiting for a big black car to show up for the money. Don gave him an offer like that, but he spat a _no, thanks_ at the guy that was rather a _fuck you_ and begged his way into a library assistant position with the force of his puppy dog eyes. It's the end of his first month and he's pleasantly surprised by how much he likes it, the quiet rooms and all that knowledge contained in rows upon rows of books. And the library is more than fifty minutes away from the house, which is always a bonus.

His morning starts off with a text from Dean that puts a smile on his face immediately. He must look like an idiot, standing in the middle of his bedroom in his striped boxers, with only one arm in his fresh shirt, but everything just comes to a stop when he sees Dean's name on the screen.

_ hiy sam dinner 2nigt? _

Sam chortles. Yeeeah, dinner, of course. More like instant soup at John's flat, then screwing on Dean's bed until John stumbles home from the bar. Their Wednesday program on repeat.

_Don't text while driving_

_ y/n _

_Yes_

He is still exhilarated about those plans hours later when he steps out of his room to escape from the house, but it melts off in two seconds flat upon entering the kitchen.

"Why so smiley, boy?" Don grunts in lieu of a greeting. He has a stack of clean needles on the table in front of him. Are they into heroin now? Sam distances himself from them as much as he can, but he suspected it was just a matter of time until they tried something new. A treat for the weekend, huh? "Got some money for me?"

Fuck. Sam knew it. Knew that this bastard would steal his salary one way or another. How long will it take until he demands to search Sam's room and finds the other half of it in his duffel?

“You gotta earn your keep, you hear me?” As though this shitface actually gave Sam food or shelter. Hell, it's safer at the goddamn bus station than in this house. “Gimme what you have. Quick, ain’t got time for no stalling.”

There isn't much to do about it. Sam is tall, but he needs a few more years to build some muscle, and Don must have a new gun on him or a knife at the very least. Refusing him would be suicidal. Resigned, Sam reaches for his wallet, but then - then his heart stops and he breaks out in cold sweat at the rush of panic that hits him. His photos… He put his photos there so that he could see them every day. The ones he took at the mall's photo booth with Dean.

“No.” He blurts out without thinking, clutching at his pocket. The photos, his photos...

“No?” Don's eyebrows rise in surprise. He stands up. “You forget who you’re talking to. You hiding something?”

Sam gulps. “No, no… I'm sorry, here." He pulls the bills out as carefully as he can, nothing but wrinkled papers in his eyes while the real value lies hidden between the fraying leather folds. "That’s all I have -”

Don wrenches the wallet out of his hand, tearing it open and dumping its remaining contents between two needles and a dirty plate. The pictures, like the petals of a dying flower, flutter out and fall scattered over the holey tablecloth.

“Watcha got here.” Don picks one up, squinting. Whichever he chose, the situation will be obvious, Sam knows. He and Dean were all over each other that day, there's no way Don would mistake them for friends.

“You a cocksucker, boy? Shit.” He hears, but he doesn't look up from under his bangs. He's trembling from fear, can't help it, and the room seems to rock left and right until he realises he's shaking his head in denial.

Don's fist slams down on the table and makes him jump. “You fuck this boy under my roof?”

 _Run, run, run,_ Sam's brain screams at him, but his legs might as well be made of lead for how useless they are. Is this how animals feel before a car hits them on the highway? “N-No, that’s not -”

“Who do you think you are? Yo, Cat, you knew about this shit?” Don calls out for Sam's Mom, then takes his lighter out of his pocket and switches it on, holding it to the picture in his hand. "Fuckin' fags."

There's no rational explanation why he does it, but Sam would probably chalk it off later as utter emotional exhaustion - his control snaps like a dry twig, and he throws himself at Don with all the fierceness of a stray dog that has been trapped into a corner.

It takes a minute or two and a few successful hits on both sides, but Don manages to push him to the ground and beats the crap out of him there. Blow comes after blow, kick following kick, until Sam starts accepting that the last words he'll hear in his life might be a string of homophobic slurs. His right eye socket throbs and his fingers are hurt so bad while trying to shield his face that they burn. Curled up to protect his stomach, he coughs as the inhaled dust bunnies and the blood inside his mouth choke him.

He thinks he calls out for his Mom at some point, but she just stands there, eyes glassy and hands trembling for her morning dose. That’s the image that can’t leave his mind even after Don storms away with her - the one picture that pushes him into the darkest oblivion he has ever experienced, once he has crawled back into his room.

In his must-smelling bed, time passes in surreal fits and bouts. Sometimes he’s awake, other times he lingers in shadowland, where everything feels skewed and on the verge between nightmares and reality. His right eye is swollen, his sight is blurry, and he's nauseous.

 _I have a concussion,_ his mind pushes it into his awareness when he finally steels himself enough to pull his blanket over himself. _He destroyed my photos,_ comes next, then, _she’s dead to me. Dead._ He debates if the last two are good enough reasons to let the first kill him, but he dozes off before he could reach a coherent conclusion.

 

* * *

 

He gasps and startles awake late in the afternoon to the sound of the front door banging open, as though someone has just kicked it in. _Robbers,_ he thinks for a second, but the thud of footsteps is too cautious for that, nothing like the quick patter of a grab-and-snatch thief. What would he steal anyway?

If it isn't the police, which is pretty damn likely, then Sam knows who it is.

"No…" He starts crying, curling up tighter and covering his face. Dean can't see him like this, it can't happen. How would he ever look at Sam with respect again? "No, please."

"Sammy!" Dean's voice rings through the house, then banging, hurried steps, away from Sam's room at first, then backtracking in the right direction until Sam's door swings open and there Dean is, rushing to the bed. "Jesus Christ, Sam. I was worried sick, you didn't answer your -"

Sam has to swallow the salt of his tears and the iron coming from his newly split lip to keep from breaking the sudden silence with a sound.

"That fucker!" Dean exclaims and something hard collides with the opposite wall. A book, probably. “What happened?”

Sam barely keeps his meltdown in check enough to try and drive Dean away with vitriol. “Since when do you care?”

Dean's fingers curl around his forearm and pull it away as gently as if it was made of eggshell. “I always do.”

“Fuck.” Caring is a mistake. Caring is the worst fucking thing, the weakest crack in the facade, the source of every pain in the world. “Don’t do that.”

The response isn't what he would have hoped for - it's neither an apology, nor an attempt at drawing away. Dean's thumb, soft, warm affection, rubs Sam's temple while the heel of his palm rests against Sam’s cheek, right where that scumbag tried to rearrange the bones, and his tone is so oddly tender that it freaks Sam out. “Sammy -”

“My name is Sam!” He shoves Dean aside hard enough to topple him over, which hurts his banged-up fingers, but he grits his teeth, limps away and locks himself in the bathroom. He isn't surprised when five seconds later Dean's hands thump on the frail wood behind him and plead.

“Baby. Please.”

“Don’t call me that.” Sam cries, and something tight and ugly pops in his chest, lets out all the molten pain to fill the empty spaces around his heart. If someone were to put a knife through his guts now, that nasty mass would spill out like motor oil and paint the floor black.

“Don’t.” He sobs, and his arms, like a puppet’s limbs, curl into his stomach and press. No matter, the poison doesn’t stop dripping. There’s no sound, he can’t make a single noise other than this dying, croaked little breath that isn’t even strong enough to thrum his vocal cords. His lungs clench still, stop expanding, and his eyes, his heart, his trembling thighs, everything squeezes. They squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until there’s nothing but the torture of their vice and a lifetime's worth of filth bleeding out of him and onto the floor. The lock clicks, picked by a desperate hand holding a hairpin, but Sam can’t hear and can’t see anything other than the drip-drop of tears, blood and saliva on the tiles.

“My God, baby…” Dean reaches for him and Sam gives up, sinks, falls on his knees and into his own wet puddle of agony.

The loss he feels borders on unbearable, but as Dean cradles him in his arms and starts rocking them both, heedless of the damp tiles, the sobs in his throat begin to quiet down into hiccups. He sniffs and wipes his sleeve over his face, even though saltwater keeps dribbling down to his chin in thick rivulets. His head is going to explode.

“Shh.” Dean soothes, and Sam loves him for not saying it’s okay, because it isn’t and never was. “Let’s get out of here, all right?”

 

Sam is still weeping when Dean locks him in the car and runs back inside. _Burn it down,_ he thinks to himself. He'd rather die on the streets than come back and see this place again. Perhaps he should be embarrassed that he isn't functional enough to grab his own things, but he's just grateful that he doesn't have to rely completely on himself.

"Did I get all your stuff?" Dean asks when he gets back behind the wheel with Sam's duffel stuffed to bursting in one hand, his school bag in the other.

Sam just nods at his own knees and keeps his eyes down until the wheels start rolling and the house disappears from sight. He knows Dean got everything that matters, if there's anything that does at all - Sam had the duffel almost full anyway, never got around to unpack it since the night he almost left this pile of crap city behind.

Climbing the stairs to John's flat is a bitch, but every step feels like a cut that chops away at the distance between Sam's pitiful condition and deliverance. Once they are inside, he makes a beeline for the bathroom, both to hide his shame and to clean the snotty, damp mess he made of his face.

Dean rushes after him and thrusts a bundle of his own clothes into Sam's arms.

“Want me to join?” He inclines his head at the ugly pineapple-patterned shower curtain. There’s nothing suggestive in it, just pure concern, and it makes Sam feel bad, like worthless trash.

“I'll manage. Thanks.” He croaks out.

His coordination is shaky with only one eye he can comfortably see with, but he squirms out of his bloody, dirty clothes and shuffles into the shower without incident. He leans his forehead against the tiles and watches the water swirl around his toes, first pinkish, then bland and transparent. He knows he wouldn't see anything good in the mirror, so he doesn't glance there when he's done, just pulls Dean's comfy sweatpants on and knots the drawstring tight enough to keep them around his skinny waist.

When he comes back out to the living room, Dean is sweeping up the remains of a broken plate from the floor.

“Dropped it.” He lies, even though the small smear it left on the wall is clear to see.

Sam starts crying again. He feels like a shivering flame with his black smoke of hurt blowing out of him. He loves Dean so much, and that’s the thing that aches the most, because without that, he would have nothing and he could find peace in the ground, lying down on fresh earth and never getting up again. Do flowers grow stronger in bloody dirt?

When he spots the fat drops rolling down Sam's cheeks, Dean clenches his free hand into a fist and presses it to his mouth, struggling. His eyes are red from unshed tears. “I’m going to kill him. Swear to God, I'm going to do it…”

“It’s my fault." Sam mumbles. "I didn’t want him to see our pictures. Should have known better.”

The broom clatters loud enough to make Sam jump. Dean's hands take an apologetic hold of his elbows. “Don’t you pull this on yourself.”

Sam's head is splitting open from the pain of his concussion and too much crying. He doesn't have the fight in him to explain. “Okay.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn't there, I should have come by sooner, I should have checked -”

Sam walks the tiny step forward it takes to rest his chin on Dean's shoulder. “It’s not on you either.”

Dean hugs him and sighs. "Do you want to eat? I know a hundred ways to make mac and cheese."

Against all odds, Sam lets out a wet laugh. It takes so little to show you care, doesn't it? Why was it always so impossible for his Mom then? She never loved him. Never even wanted him. "Can I lie down in your room?"

"Of course, baby."

Sam is too tired to remind Dean not to call him that, even if it's apparently part of the Dean Winchester mother hen routine. He's not into the whole pet names thing. It's too unfamiliar, or maybe he just needs to figure out a way to respond in kind. Hell knows. Perhaps he's deviant in yet another way.

In the bedroom, Dean patches him up without raising his voice or giving away how livid he is even once, despite the muscle clenched tight in his jaw. He's way too skilled for it to be his first time, so Sam suspects he takes care of his Dad with similar patience whenever he gets into bar brawls or hassles the wrong guy. It wouldn't surprise him if Dean told him he had known how to dress a wound before middle school. Daddy's little soldier.

 

* * *

 

 

It's late in the evening when a knock rasps on the door and John comes into the room. After a look from his dad, Dean stays outside and switches on the TV, although Sam can still hear him pacing around. There isn't even the slightest bit of resemblance between John and Don, but looking up at his strong body and hard expression from the mattress makes Sam's breathing quicken and his eyes tear up.

John is perceptive enough to sit down before it escalates into full-blown panic.

He laces his fingers together and tries for a smile. “You didn't tell him everything, did you?”

Sam sniffles and wipes his good eye, shaking his head. Why is he so freaking sensitive all of a sudden?

“All right.” John puts a hand on his ankle and squeezes gently. He doesn't stink of booze for once, so Dean must have called him before he got to the bar. Why is it that his boyfriend's dad can control his addiction for a little while to help him and his own mother can't? “I'm no doctor, but I can patch it up if it isn't broken.”

"My headache is killing me. It makes me dizzy." Sam mumbles, then reaches for the hem of his shirt when John nods. "And… there's this."

Don did a good job of covering Sam's entire body in bruises, but by far his right side took the worst of it. He didn't let Dean see because he didn't want to be fussed over. Even if he broke something, what can they do with no money and no insurance?

John looks him over very carefully, but doesn't touch anything. His face remains unreadable. “Do you feel any pressure?” Sam shakes his head. “Can you take a deep breath?”

He can. It makes the pain worse, but he doesn't feel any sharp rise in it. He had a fractured rib once, on his other side, and he couldn't even move for days. Maybe he got away with a nasty bruise this time. He could do with some luck right now.

John reaches out and puts his hand on Sam's lower ribs, not far from the point where they connect to his spine. "Tell me where it hurts."

Sam gasps and whimpers when he presses down, jerking away from the touch. "Right there."

"Nothing here?" John gestures at Sam's sternum.

"No."

“All right. I don't think any of them are broken. Ain't much to do about it but waiting it out. Dean will get you some painkillers.” He concludes and pulls Sam's shirt back down. “But you have a concussion and I'm worried about an internal bleeding.”

“I'm uninsured.” Sam sheds another hot teardrop on his lap. Why can't they stop falling?

John stands up and nods. It couldn't have been a surprise that Sam's mother didn't even arrange for Medicaid. “We’ll see if it gets worse or not.”

"Thank you, sir."

John pauses then, looks at the duffel bag next to Dean's bedside table and rubs a finger over his dark eyebrow. "You reckon they will come looking for you?"

Sam lowers his gaze. "I doubt it."

John makes a noncommittal noise. "You can stay as long as you want, kid. Can't promise you much, but you'll be safe here with my boy." He puts his work-rough hand on the top of Sam's head, just for a second, then pulls it away. "Get some rest."

As the door clicks shut behind him, Sam lies down propped up by a bundle of blankets and turns his face into Dean's pillow to soothe himself with the smell. He wishes he had a father, oh, how he wishes he did.

 

Dean comes in later, fresh out of the shower, and puts two painkillers in Sam's right hand, a glass of water in the left. He produces another blanket from a nook in his wardrobe and settles in next to Sam's half-sitting form, draping it over them both.

Sam gulps the pills down and gives the empty glass back. He's too sore to twist and lean over Dean to put it on the bedside table. "Your dad told me I can stay."

"That wasn't even a question." Dean mutters, eyes dark and jaw set. "I won't let you go back there ever again."

"Control freak." Sam gives him a small smile.

Dean sulks, glaring ahead. "Okay. I won't let you go _alone."_

"No need to worry about that."

Dean puts his arm around Sam’s shoulders and helps him shift around until he's resting against Dean instead of the pillows. He kisses Sam's forehead. “I'll wake you up in half an hour if you fall asleep.”

“Okay.” Sam closes his eyes and turns his face away from the door. He feels protected now, safe between Dean and the wall. "Concussions suck."

He's out within a minute.

 

As his oblivion clears up for the umpteenth time that godforsaken night, Sam feels a hand in his hair and hears a whisper, or dreams it, maybe, his mind trying to heal his body from the inside, starting with his soul.

"Time to wake up, Cinderella."

"It's Sleeping Beauty." He mumbles back and frowns at Dean's soft laugh.

"That was a test."

"Uh-huh." Sam winces in pain as the dawning sunlight shines into his eyes. Nighttime is over then. Fuck. It's one thing that Dean doesn't have blinds and, of course, his window isn't boarded up either, but he could have at least drawn the curtains closed. Irritated beyond belief, Sam raises a hand to shield his eyes. "I'm not a fucking flower. Don't need light."

“I’m sorry." Dean snickers, unrepentant. He kisses into Sam's mouth despite his awful morning breath and combs his fingers through Sam's messy hair. "I love you.”

Sam tucks his head under Dean’s chin and grumbles. His limbs ache from all those ugly bruises covering them and his fingers feel raw and swollen. His ribs won't let him lie down comfortably enough and he needs to piss but doesn't want to. He's not feeling too lovey-dovey at the moment.

Dean yawns. "I have a plan I'd like to run by you."

"Shoot."

"I don't trust that asshole to stay away from you, so I thought we could go on a road trip until things quiet down. See Houston or the Grand Canyon, have some fun."

Sam can't help but laugh in bemusement. "Houston _or_ _the Grand Canyon?"_

Dean clears his throat. "Just an example. We could drive around in Texas or go somewhere specific."

"Like the Grand Canyon." Sam grins, not surprised when he gets no response. "That's where you wanna go."

"Maybe." Dean shrugs, which is as good as a confirmation. "I have some savings, you know? I usually keep them for Dad's debts, but I thought we could spend it on ourselves for a change. And I could always land some repair jobs for a few days if we run out of cash. We could leave next week, then come back in late August."

Sam's _yes_ stutters to a halt on his tongue. "Why come back?"

Dean picks up Sam's right hand and examines his fingers to distract him a little. "Because you can only go to school here without a permission from your mom."

"Who cares?"

Dean stops fidgeting. “Sammy, I want you to finish it.”

“What?” Sam sits up way too fast for his ribs, but he grits out a reply through his teeth. “No.”

“Think your Mom would stick around that long?”

“Probably not.” Don's getting bored of her already and her deteriorating looks don't help. She might start this fall at a shelter for the first time in her life, because she won't have Sam to aid her either. He won't go back to her again. So, no, it's not likely that they could get her to help with a transfer to another school. Sam takes a deep breath. “But why can’t we just run away together?”

“Because I know you could do great things with that brain of yours. I don’t want you to throw it away.” Dean looks defeated, like he doesn't believe his opinion would be enough to make Sam reconsider, because the people who matter never take his feelings into account.

Oh, how wrong he is about that.

“I don’t know.” Sam looks away. He would do anything to get away from his life here, but what if Dean is right?

“Okay. We’ll think it over.” Dean pulls Sam's hand to his lips and smacks a kiss into the center of his palm.

Sam bursts into giggles even though they hurt his side. He must not look too pretty with a black eye so big he can barely see with it, but Dean watches him as though he poured spun gold into the gap his mom's death left behind. Sam's world flips around that look until, for a moment, there's nothing but hope in his heart. "I might have changed my mind about that matching tattoo."

 

* * *

 

 

Sam's total is seventeen years and thirty-six days. It's roughly four hundred and thirty-six days longer than what he would have liked to spend living with his Mom's addiction, but he was alone and he didn't know he could have a say in his own life. He was just ballast, tied to his sinking mother without ever believing he could leave and let her fizzle out on her own. Kids are like that, they stick with their parents - but some things are bound to make even them snap.

Sam stares at the Impala's trunk and tries to count the ratio of the number of times they moved to his attempts at running away. It has been four years since his first - and his final was ten days ago. The struggle is over now. He has clean clothes, a sleek car to take him away, a person who loves him and a future that doesn't include white powder, mildew and knuckles on bones.

Dean comes out of the apartment building behind him, the last pieces of their luggage on his shoulders. He has three bags altogether, Sam has one and a half. That's it. All of his life. How did it fit? It used to be something he could count to measure their way on the downward slope. The first time they moved, his Mom borrowed a truck. Then a car became enough, packed full to the brim, then not so much anymore. Things eventually just… disappeared. By the time she turned to the hard stuff and decided to come down here, it was enough to buy one bus ticket each and sleep wedged between a grandma and a creep.

What if he and Dean could do this in reverse? Build up to beds and bookshelves and cutlery until they get to a whole house and they don't have to move anymore?

That's the stuff dreams are made of.

"Let me say goodbye to the old man." Dean winks at him when the bags are settled and presses a short peck to Sam's mouth.

They have already said their farewell, but John is hungover and on his way to drunk again - he didn't take it as well as Dean hoped. Even though they don't know… They don't know if they will come back or not. Is that one year of school really worth it?

"I don't approve of this." John grouches, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "You know better than to throw that money out the window."

Dean stays very still in front of him. This is it. He'll either go directly against the approval he has been fighting for since his mom died, or he will throw away his shot at taking a leap with someone he doesn't need to please to be loved. Sam bites his tongue and thinks, _time to cancel our plans, huh?_

But Dean's back straightens, his chin rises, and he looks his father in the eye. "With all due respect, sir." He says, voice firm. “I can make my own decisions.”

Sam wants to run up to him and hug him breathless, bruised ribs be damned.

To his utter amazement, John beats him to it. He breaks the staring match and clasps Dean on the shoulder, almost like a punishment first, then his frown smooths out and, for a split second, lets them witness the shell of a man underneath who lost too much to cope.

"You drive safe and keep that car spotless. If I see one scratch when you come back, you'll find yourself in that rustbucket there." He points at his own car and almost smiles. "And that's an order, boy."

Dean makes an aborted shuffle forward and nods. "Yessir."

John does crack a grin then, and pulls Dean into a tight embrace, the manly back-slapping kind that Sam would roll his eyes over if he wasn't touched by the look of heartbreaking happiness on Dean's face.

It stays there all the way out of the city, a perfect reflection of the sunlit streets and the golden summer morning.

"Not a word." Dean sniffs when they pass the border.

"Got it." Sam smiles and looks away, opens the window and lets the wind tangle in his hair, blowing it out of his face and cooling the warm strands. He feels the caress of Dean's fingers on the still fading bruise on his jaw, and he swats at them with a scowl, but nothing wipes away the curves from the corners of his lips. “Don’t touch me, jerk.”

Dean's laugh is a ring that drifts through the car and joins the sounds of the radio turning on.

Sam watches the town shrink in the mirror and disappear behind a cloud of sand, and knows this is forever. Burning his hand on sun-warm leather, sweating through his shirt, seeing the world as it runs backwards and away into the dusty horizon. Not-laughing at Dean’s crappy jokes. Moving, always moving forward, into the distance.

Flipping off his imaginary void, he takes his first breath above the surface and freedom floods him like fresh air.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this one, especially because the imagery I used here hits close to home for me. I hope you guys had fun reading it. What did you think of the conclusion?

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome and appreciated. :)


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